


Jeeves and the Darkest Hour

by preux



Series: Bertie and Jeeves: International Men of Mystery [7]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Competent!Bertie, Established Relationship, Flashbacks, France (Country), International Relations, London, M/M, Spies & Secret Agents, Underground
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:47:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/preux/pseuds/preux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years into their lives as spies, Bertie and Jeeves find themselves facing a dangerous enemy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. London

**21:00: Military Intelligence Offices**

Trouble was brewing on the Continent. The MI20 knew he was too old and too ill to continue his work alone. He had chosen a perfect apprentice, nearly smarter than Mycroft, but able to act. The MI20 had tried to lure the young man to his side, but his successor remained continually elusive.  It was time. He must strike at his very heart if he were to capture Reginald Jeeves and bend him to heel.

 **21:30** :  **Kensington**

The Director, a large well-built man with a strongly Roman cast to his features crawled back into bed, waking his adjutant, a portly man of about his own age. “Get up, Don, drat you. That blasted fool in MI20 will kill us all. Get up, I say. I know you’re only pretending to be asleep.” 

Don sighed impatiently, pursed his lips like a schoolmarm, sat up. “So now you’re talking to me?”

The Director briefly considered throttling his life’s companion, but thought better of it. The paperwork would be dreadful and there was no use dragging their latest personal dispute into their work life.  If he could remember what Don was upset about, perhaps things would improve. “It’s work, Don. That blighted idiot has threatened Wooster again.”

Even at his most disgruntled, Don could be counted on to rally to the cause. Wooster and Jeeves were highly valued part-time field agents who had been on the run from the MI20 for two years, if you could consider living in a luxurious flat in London as master and manservant to be on the run. “Good heavens, Cyril. Is he trying to make another Moriarty out of the poor youngster?”

A small smile played at the corners of the Director’s mouth. “So now you’re talking to me?”

The portly man made a sour face and shoved the Director aside as he got out of the bed. “I’m not answering that. Do you want some tea?” The Director closed his eyes and counted to seven.  Then he reminded himself that neither of them had asked for the life they shared and that Don had taken the betrayal of their loyalty to the crown deeply to heart.

“Yes, please. And find that stash of berets if you can. We’ll need red ones.”

 

 **Midnight:**   **Berkeley Mansions**

_“Dash it!”  I hopped back right smart as my whangee blasted._

_Jeeves shimmered up and extinguished the flames, then helped me untangle myself from the table I’d knocked over. “Sir,” he said in a soupy tone. “Will you be dressing for dinner?"_

_“Dash it, Jeeves!  I thought I told you only the decoder whangees go in the umbrella stand.  You know I always detonate the blasting ones.”  I slapped at a smoking portion of the Wooster anatomy. “I don’t want to be late for Catsmeat’s dinner.”_

_“I apologize for the oversight, sir.” Jeeves took me, very firmly, by the elbow and dragged me, still loudly protesting about Catsmeat’s dinner, to the bedroom and closed the door.  “He is in the kitchen, Bertie.”_

_I wracked the bean for some context.  None appeared to fish me out of the soup. Odd--there was a bowl of soup sitting on the bed, and a fish.  “Not that vast Caesar-looking chappie I met in France?  The one who leaves us violet berets after missions?”_

_“That is the Director.  The man in the kitchen is currently enjoying a cup of tea while he plants a listening device in my bedroom."_

_I reached out for him, but he flinched back.  “My dear Reg? Have I…?”_

_His voice shook.  “Please, I can’t break down. He’s come to take me away, Bertie.”  Jeeves pulled himself back together and slapped the stuffed frog into place. He also had a real frog on his shoulder.  Bally strange. There was nothing for it but to ankle into the kitchen and endure the evil, leering smirk of the wrinkled chap hunched over the table slurping his tea. A plate of crumbs was at his elbow, and the biscuit tin had been pried open with enough force to twist the metal. He had the look of a cove who had once been a model of upright vigor but was suffering from some terrible illness.  The dribbling did not enhance his overall appeal._

_“What ho, Director?”  He flinched, his clawlike paw grasping his side._

_“I am NOT the director, you filthy fool. What is this vile thing doing here?”_

_“As you will recall, this is Mr. Wooster, your host, who most graciously provided the tea and biscuits you are now enjoying.”_

_The old man sneered. “Yes, your filthy invert. Tell him good-bye.  You will not be seeing him again.”_

_How I was able to refrain from howling in an agony of grief and pain, I will never know. Jeeves had, of course, taken matters in hand in a far different way than the frightening old cove at the table expected._

_“You heard me, Jee…eee.”  The Director slumped onto the table, in what looked like the first pain-free moments he had spent in a long time._

_“How long do we have, Reg?”_

_“About three hours.” We bunged the old cove on the bed and tied him down for his safety.  You know how these old folks can hurt themselves tumbling from the bed. Then we covered him up nicely.  We bunged into the two-seater and raced for the coast._

_The scene shimmered. “He’s sick?”  I asked as we tossed our goods and chattels into a fishing boat we’d hired to take us across the Channel._

_“Dying.”_

_“Why you?”_

_“I was chosen as his successor based on that infernal test.”  We hooked our pinkies. Jeeves coshed the captain and we headed back to the coast of England to board a cargo ship bound for South America._

_The Director was waiting for us, surrounded by beefy coves.  “I was told to arrest you,” he said.  “Apparently, you drugged MI20...”_

_“I am sure he rested comfortably for some time, sir.”_

_“He was in a frightful temper. He said you could have your blasted Wooster if only you’d come back.  We need you.”_

_“I am afraid I cannot trust him to honor his word, sir.”_

_The Director smiled.  It was the same smile of affectionate pride that Jeeves gave me when I had managed to get Anatole back to the relative safety of Brinkley Court without alerting the constabulary or losing any of the good throwing knives he gave me for my birthday.  “No, you cannot trust him.  I have your orders.  You are now the acting head.”_

_“I am honored, but I will not be parted from Mr. Wooster so long as he requires a valet.”_

_The smile deepened, as if Jeeves was a schoolboy who learned all of his lessons.  “He gave us orders to take him in and do whatever we liked with him.  Called him a filthy invert and quite a number of other unpleasant names.”_

_Jeeves grew grim, grimmer than I’d ever seen him. “Please do not do something foolish.”  He stepped in front of me protectively._

_The Director was grinning.  “We did do something foolish, Jeeves. You are the acting head, and he is your permanent attaché.  You may do whatever you like now, under the protection of the Crown.”_

_“Then Mr. Holmes has been put into appropriate treatment?”_

_“Oh, no.  Mr. Holmes is under your direction.  The man who was in your kitchen is dead.  Ruptured himself eating an entire tin of biscuits. Let it be a lesson to you.”_

_“It is a lesson to me,” said Jeeves, still in the grim voice.  He gripped my elbow.  “What would you like to do, sir?”_

_“Jeeves?”_

_“Sir.  What would you like to do?”_

_What would I like?  I only had a minute or two and everyone knew I was not the quickest study.  “Do you remember how it was at the villa? After our first trip to Paris?”_

_The Jeevesian visage softened.  “I do.”_

_A tear rolled down the Director’s cheek.  “You shame us, Wooster.”_

**  
**

**London**

The Director, Cyril Washburn, Lord Greystone, was not best pleased with his adjutant, Donald Mountbatten Phipps.  The portly figure trotted, hair flying and waistcoat askew. His hat flew off and he ran back for it. It had been their third stop, but it wouldn’t do to say anything as Donnie was already in a foul temper and he was capable of behaving vindictively for months at a time. “Are we lost again?  They live in Berkeley Mansions.”

“They’re gone.”  Donnie heaved himself into the car. Cyril started driving before he had the door fully closed, which earned him a sharp look. "The doorman seems very fond of them.  They received some official-looking package and left on the night train.”

The Director was confused, and confusion made him angry. He cursed and Donnie scolded. “I told them to flee. Why in blazes were they even here?”

“The doorman says the phone was ringing quite a lot earlier in the evening.”

The Director’s temper overtook his reason. “That vile bastard.  That vile, gloating prig.”

“Rilly!  Language.”

“Sorry. Did you leave them a beret?”

“Red. Danger. Was that right?” The Director counted to four and refrained from pointing out that the question was best asked before leaving a beret with a doorman.  

“Yes. Well, done, Donnie. We’d best get to the train.”

“We’ve no bags, Cy.” Donnie liked his planning and his comforts.  “We’ll need to go back to the house so I can make proper arrangements.  It should only take until tomorrow afternoon.  Maybe the next morning.”

The Director closed his eyes, remembered he was driving, and opened them again. He counted to nine. “No, Donnie.  This is an emergency. We have the overnight bag in the boot.”

Donnie appeared to be trying to behave himself. “Good man, Jeeves.”

“Very good man.  That vile prat is trying to twist him away from the true.”

“I doubt it will work, Cy.”

“If it does, I fear for all of us.”

“Are you sure we don’t have time to go home and pack?”

The Director counted to seventeen.

 

**Paris**

**Bertie**

I woke up from my dream, terrified, calling for Jeeves.

“Bertie, love.” Jeeves held my face in his hands. There was not a scorched wall or a decoder whangee in sight. In fact, I'm not sure there is such a thing as a decoder whangee.  Deuced good idea, though, I should let one of the fellows know.

I clutched at him and he pressed his forehead against mine. “Darling, you’re all right. It’s all right, love. No one is taking me away. I’m right here. It was just a dream, just a dream.” He folded the quaking corpus into his arms and kissed me, but I was still in a cold panic. He was lying about something. We had fled London three days before and I still did not know why. Wooster-Jeeves relations had been at a nadir—aside from a few endearing terms during a truly spectacular bout of lovemaking a few hours before, this was the first time he had spoken in two days. I couldn’t stop shaking. My heart felt like it was being chopped into pieces and I started to cry in great heaving, terrified sobs.  

Jeeves was deeply shaken. I'd only cried in front of him like this once before. "Darling, I'm sorry. It's going to be all right." 

“Please, Reg, we have to go. We have to go now. Please, Reg. Please.”

He went completely still. Even in the darkness, I could almost see the wheels clicking in his marvelous brain as he remembered what had happened the last time I had begged him to run away from some danger, and he didn’t—couldn’t, rather—listen. I think he had to choke back his own panicked sobs to speak, but he said, “of course, love.” Then he soothed me until I calmed down.  While I lay in the bed panting like a wounded fox, he shimmered up. We dressed hurriedly and Jeeves oozed about, systematically gathering all our loose ends and then double-checking the place, while I tried to gather myself. He made me drink the last of the milk for my strength because I hadn’t been able to choke anything down.

We left a note and a healthy tip for the manager and made off in a cab to the outskirts of the city, where we stored our car. “Where are we going, love?” Jeeves asked while we slapped magnetic panels on the doors to change the color. I boggled. “We’ll go wherever you want, love.”  I shook my head, bewildered.  “Darling, when we were first exploring our love and you were the master, you allowed yourself to be ruled by my preferences. It’s your turn now. We’ll do whatever you like.”

My dream flashed before me. “The villa, Reg. Can we go to the villa? Please, Reg. No one knows where it is.”

“Darling.”  Jeeves made the breathy sound that heralded the advent of his most tender affections.  We hopped in the car and I started the engine.  I may not have eaten, but he hadn’t slept since we left London.

I patted his knee, but my voice was grim. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

“What, love?” He sounded tired to death, but I kept on.

“They chose you for some blasted dangerous assignment.  It wasn’t that poncho at all. That’s why you stopped talking to me. You didn’t want to tell me.”

“In fact, I was quite perturbed by the poncho, love.  It looked extremely silly with your dress trousers.”

“You liked it fine once I removed them underneath.”

He made another breath, the one he made when blushed so deeply that his chest turned the color of a ripe tomato.  The poncho was now stored in our special bag with the scented oils and my pink garments, the bag we always grabbed first in case of emergencies.  “I do always enjoy it when you remove your trousers, love.”

He was not going to deflect me.  When two men of iron will share a life, sometimes one must have his way or take the velvet fist from the iron glove or, er, thingummy. “It’s true, isn’t it?”

A deep sigh wracked the Jeevesian corpus.  He bent his head and made a noise like a person stifling a sob. I pulled the car to the side of the road and took him in my arms. He didn’t frown in public, let alone sob in cars in full view of the street.  Thankfully it was a moonless night. “It’s worse than that, love. I am sorry I was not more forthright, but my heart is broken and I do not know what to do.”

The blood went cold. “How could it possibly be worse?”

His voice took on the chilling, disconnected quality it had when he talked about the most unpleasant parts of his past, the stories that made me cry just hearing them. “They have instructed me to cease all contact with you. He informed me of his desire to… pair you with Mr. Cheesewright.”

The blood froze outright. I left the car to retch in the bushes, since I understood the term ‘pair’ to have several meanings in this context.  Apparently there was a special MI team where the partners were ‘bonded.’ We’d nearly been sent to a training house two years earlier, and even the preview had been quite eye-opening. In fact, it had started many of the problems of the evening. The team did not officially exist and rumor had it that it had been the idea of the MI20, a twisted evil genius who was notorious for his perverted fascination with inverts. The stories about his activities among the hapless agents he paired curled the intestines. The MI20 did not officially exist, either, which made it bally hard to counter his schemes. Poor Cheesewright—I can only imagine how he reacted when they told him the news. I rinsed the gob with a flask of tea Jeeves had thoughtfully packed. “They promised, Reg.  We have it in writing.”

“MI20 does not feel itself bound by the agreements forged by the Director.”

I gasped.  He was beyond all influence, even the Crown.  “Perhaps the villa is not the best plan, Reg.”

Jeeves curled up in the seat. “No, love. It is a wonderful plan. They will never expect us to disappear like this. The most direct plan would be to go to London.  And the wisest plan would be to enlist the help of our powerful and influential friends. No, this is perfect. Perhaps we can stop at that lake resort we enjoyed three years ago, then we can take the French route back to Italy.”

I sped down the road into the blackness of night.  I hoped he was right.  “You’d better get some sleep, Reg.”

“Will you be all right, love?”

“As long as you are with me, I will always be well.”

 

**Jeeves**

Mr. Wooster has shamed me with his generous forgiveness.  I should have spoken to him sooner, but the mere thought of losing him could break me in two.  He is my very heart, and I do not know how I could possibly live without him. As we neared the gates for the resort, having chnaged the color of the car twice more, Mr. Wooster gasped. "D'Arcy."

"Love?"

"D'Arcy.  He's going to Cannes."

"Bertie, I don't understand you."

"Reg, I'm sorry, but when I went out for milk, I decided that we would have to go to Cannes.  I left a message for D'Arcy at our flat."

The panic that gripped me was so profound I nearly retched.  "Bertie, how could you...don't you know how dangerous that was?"

I could have predicted his answer. "I could not let that stop me, even if I did know, but I didn't."

The heart paused in my breast. How could I ever have attached such a dear, generous, forbearing man?  He had followed me and tolerated my silent panic with no idea what had happened. "Love? How could you not have known?  I left the cable out for you on your desk."

"I could never read your cable without you saying so, Reg.  That's not preux."

My hand went to the ring I wore around my neck, the one he had given me as a sign of his affection. "Bertie, of course you can read my cables when I leave them open on your desk. I thought it was customary among spouses."

Mr. Wooster appeared deeply puzzled. "But it's not as if we're, actually, you know, Reg."

"Can we discuss this further inside?"

"Of course."

The resort had been popular in the last century but was now unfashionable.   It was also well past the season, and most of the other guests were elderly French people who remembered grander days. I did most of the talking as Mr. Wooster's French remained imperfect.We took two adjoining rooms that shared a spacious bath and looked out over the lake.  They each had a balcony on the lakeside and my room was situated at the end of the building, so that it had a balcony on the other side as well.  We were near the stairwells and close enough to the ground that we could land without injuring ourselves.  

I took Mr. Wooster's hand.  "Bertie, I don't understand you, love.  You asked me to belong to you.  I thought that we had agreed... to hook our pinkies for life."

His dear beloved face worked with some difficult emotion I couldn't quite identify. "But, Reg, we never.... I am so grateful and happy you're willing to wear the ring, but we didn't, you know, complete the knot." He hung his head. "And I was afraid to press you.  You are destined for such great things and I am so, mentally negligible."

"Oh, darling," I gasped.  He had given me his mother's ring, and I had never understood that he was waiting for something more. "Oh, Bertie, I have thought all this time that we'd agreed to belong only to each other. I have been unable to believe my great good fortune in attaching you."

His face lit up. "You have?" I nodded.  "But we never..."  He flushed miserably.

"Bertie, darling, I am most ashamed."  I went to my bags and found a small leather case.  "Here, beloved.  I commissioned this in Paris some time ago.  I was intending to give it to you on the anniversary of our promise, but I think, perhaps it is more fitting now."  

His eyes brimmed. "You mean?" I opened the case, which contained a flat locket on a leather cord. Inside was a miniature of his parents. "Oh, Reg, this is so beautiful. Thank-you. You really do want to? For life?" 

"Yes, beloved darling. Bertram Wooster, I am most deeply honored to belong to you."

"I am so happy, heart's delight.  Ah, Reg, you're leaking a bit at the edges."

We kissed and the world righted itself again. 


	2. An extremely rummy weekend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeeves and Bertie find themselves in the middle of a top-secret soup. Will they escape to freedom?

TWO YEARS EARLIER

**Bertie**

After we had been biffing about the Continent for about a year, Jeeves and I toddled off to a special training session at an invitation from the Director.  Bertram was unprepared for the honor, in more ways than initially seemed worth considering. I still grappled with the notion that I  had spy-worthy merits.  Nevertheless and as it happens and other circumstances notwithstanding, even Jeeves was completely unprepared for the high and low jinks that ensued. Apparently, these completely imaginary branches of the MI are wild places just seething and frothing and bubbling with the sorts of excitement that are best left to the worse sort of salacious novels one can find in France, such works being frowned upon highly by the authorities at home. Wooster strongly prefers sticking with the official, above-board places that make the news, which always treated us well, not these areas not even fit for the pages of that Ian Fleming cove, who in any event would never have even thought of something so outre. The skin crawls at the very thought.  It was almost worse than those tales about Jack the Ripper, nasty cove who was never caught and brought to justice.

Things were bally unsettling right from the start. For one thing, we were ushered into a suite with a massive, king-sized bed. Our bags had been plopped around as though it was understood that we’d be sleeping together—not at all preux.  Naturally, Jeeves and I slept together at home, but no one knew about our cozy arrangements. We both wanted to maintain that situation.

“Reg,” I squeaked. Jeeves bunged a reassuring arm about the corpus, which was quaking badly. “Can we go home? I don’t like this.”

A very grim expression had clapped itself onto his dial, sort of like a very stern and disgruntled stuffed frog that has been asked to sit in as magistrate for Sir Watkin Bassett. “It does feel rather unsafe, love,” he agreed. “Likely it is an error.” Jeeves shimmered over and picked up his bag and oozed out to set matters right. I heard a very loud, “Good afternoon, Director,” and shuffled out at top speed, only to find that the Director, a vast Caesar-looking chappie continually armed with a quelling look, and Donnie, his assistant, had let themselves in. 

“What ho!” I said, trying to appear convivial and jocund, if those are the words I want, rather that frightened and bally unsettled, which is how I felt.

“What a pleasant surprise, sir, Captain,” said Jeeves.

“Where are you going?” asked the Director, eyeing the bag in the Jeevesian paw.  They locked the gazes and it was like witnessing the interactions of primeval, if that’s the word I want, forces.  Like two of those giant mastodon coves locked in a battle of wills over which one would gain dominion over the fruitiest iceberg.  Jeeves came out victorious and I would have glowed with pride had I not been otherwise occupied keeping the contents of the Wooster stomach from spewing about the room.

Jeeves used his most casual firm voice, the one that made stolid doormen scuttle about like frightened lobsters and reduced slovenly housemaids to tears. “Someone left my bag in Mr. Wooster’s room in error.”

The Director was nonplussed, which I could tell because his lips parted slightly for a second, then he turned pink around the edge of one ear and exchanged a flickered look with Donnie. The bearing changed dramatically, which meant that the brows grew somewhat less stern and he stopped clenching the fists. He spoke as gently as a cove such as himself was able, although a frightened rabbit would likely have died of heart tremours at the sound. Wooster had some difficulty not diving into the shelter of the nearest couch. “Son, it’s part of the training. You sleep in the same bed, just like Donnie and I were paired. For bonding.”

I boggled and Jeeves’s face settled into his bronzed amphibian look, which was bally terrifying. Despite the reasonable tone, everything the Director uttered sounded bally wrong, as if he was emitting some type of recording. I could almost hear the back of his brain screaming, “No, old chap, that can’t be at all right,” the confusion was that evident across his Caesar-like lemon. His face screwed up a bit, like a parrot trying to understand what it was saying. Even Wooster, who is normally slow to take up the facts and mash them into a meaningful, er, meaning, knew that the Director and Donnie were deeply in need of a visit from the eminent loony doctor, Sir Roderick Glossop.

I blenched and dropped onto the Chesterfield, but the Director had gone on.  He rarely did notice me, which was rummy, but one does not want to be uncivil. “We also recommend that you do your Swedish exercises and weight training together and rub each other out afterward, so you learn each other’s body rhythms and become a more effective team during stealth missions when you can’t communicate verbally. You should remember this from your own previous pairing, Jeeves. Most of the records from that do seem to be missing, but you know how records were in the war. You seem like an ideal team to effect the capture of a spy known as the Wolf, who was sighted in France last year.”

Jeeves went the color of whey that is feeling slightly peaked and otherwise under the weather. I ankled over and set a manly hand on his shoulder. The Director paused.  “You didn’t know?”

“No, sir.” The conversation had gone ridiculously tense and I wished I understood what they were talking about. A dashed unpleasant feeling trickled about the corpus. Jeeves had had what he thought was an understanding during the war. Apparently, it had been a much less personal arrangement than his commanding officer, now called the Wolf, had indicated. Unless, of course, the Director did not know something about this Wolf, who had disappeared during a dangerous battle and was thought dead, but resurfaced in France some years later.

Jeeves’s stories about this Wolf cove were deuced rummy, making him seem like that two-headed Roman chap one sees in the extremely boring sort of museum full of the broken bits.  Jeeves drew a picture of a blighter of the first water on the one hand, but a highly decent, caring chap on the other, and this had never made much sense to Wooster, or Jeeves, for that matter. We’d been on the man’s trail for months, without much luck in discovering if it was him, or finding the safe deposit box he’d left for Jeeves. We had had no idea that the Director even knew that the Wolf might be at large since we had told no one what we knew.  And we knew nothing, really, so there was nothing to tell, so capturing the Wolf didn’t seem like a, whatsit…er, viable option. He did not sound like a terribly cooperative fellow. I made a note to ask Jeeves a few barbed and piercing and otherwise pointed questions later.

We had been told that the training was supposed to give us an edge in the field, but it was tanta-thingummy to declaring ourselves as inverts. This could not be right. Hence, ergo, and er, thingamajig, something was terribly, terribly er, not right, that is to say, wrong, terribly wrong. 

The Director let loose with a volley of expletives that came near to blistering the paint on the ceiling.  Donnie scolded and they began to bicker. At first it seemed much like Jeeves and I did when we were alone and I wanted to wear something purple out in public, but they argued with much more venom, like a two headed snake where each head hated the other head and only refrained from killing it because they both would bleed to death.  It curled the Wooster insides to witness.  Finally, the Director drew himself up short. “Would you prefer if I let you and Wooster have a quiet conversation together about this while we get you situated in separate rooms? You have seemed so determined to stay together, and we did this….” He started to look confused, as if he did not quite remember why he had done it.  Donnie shut his eyes and moved his lips.

Jeeves wrenched back control of his pipes. “Do you expect us to… become sexually intimate … at your direction?”

The Director blenched. “No, no!” He turned appealingly to Donnie, whose mouth flapped open like a stunned frog’s. “This is my home, Jeeves. You expressed a strong desire to stay with Wooster, and we’re doing everything we can to honor your preference there.  There is no notion at all, no requirement…you have neither of you ever indicated that you were…  you can sleep back to back if you like. Most of the pairs do, in fact.”

“At first,” said Donnie, then clapped his hand over his mouth.

The Director closed his eyes and counted to twenty.  I could tell because his lips moved. “It is really not so bad, sons. Donnie and I were bonded and now we…” He stopped again, as if he could not quite form the words.  Donnie looked at him warily.

Jeeves looked deeply upset as evidenced by a sort of extra-set look about the lips. “Thank-you,” I said, stepping forward, so that I was between the Director and Jeeves.  The Director focused on me as if he were seeing me for the first time, and I quailed as I always did when this cove directed the sights Woosterward.  Some coves just make Wooster start to twiddle the thumbs and fiddle with the nearest object while he attempts to reassemble the grey matter into a functioning unit.  The Director made those blokes look like fuzzy bunnies just waiting to have a nice snuggle prior to giving out some treats. “Quite right, er. I think it would be, er, ah. We would like to, ah, talk.  This is…nothing we, er, ah thing, expected.  We had not considered, er, that is. Whatsit. Right, then.”  I then attempted to smile winningly, aware that my face had likely twisted into more of a horrified grimace.

The look on the Director’s face indicated that he found me mentally negligible, but I did not care about anything except Jeeves. “You’ll have a few hours before you have to dress for dinner.”

“Thank-you, Director, Donnie,” I said, ushering them to the door and locking it behind them, then wedging a chair under the door handle. “Reg?” He hadn’t moved, which was not a good sign.  I oozed back to him and bunged an arm about the Jeevesian waist. “Reg, whither thou goest.”  I set the palm on the small of his back and steered him to the bed. We lay down on the covers and bunged off the shoes.  “Reg?”  He curled up in a little ball—or as small a ball as he could make of all his corking muscles—and I curled up around his quaking corpus, murmuring soft words of loving comfort and stroking his hair. I always regret not bunging him in the car and dashing off into hiding in that moment. I should have been more firm, even if our mistake turned into a happy accident later. He fell asleep and I didn’t have the heart to wake him for dinner.  The Director came by to show us to the new rooms, where he was having our dinner laid out.  I ankled to the door to receive him.

“How is he?”

I drew self up. “He’s, er, asleep.”

The Director intimidated with a glance, but had velvet gloves in abundance. “I’ll send a tray up with your breakfast tomorrow.  You may leave whenever you like and nothing more will be said.  However, we did engage a fencing and a tumbling master for the next three weeks.  You are free to stay and see if they can help you.”

“Thank-you, sir.”

“Donnie and I are in the master suite.  If you need anything, please knock before you enter as we….” I flushed at his bald admission that they could be arguing or, well, er, whatsit.  It was terribly not preux, even between husband and wife. “You have nothing to fear from us.”

“But we do from others, sir.”  Jeeves had shimmered over in his silent way. “Your understanding with Captain Phipps is protected, but I doubt that Mr. Wooster and I can have the same level of security even for a platonic relationship such as you describe. Mr. Wooster has already been threatened by MI20, more than once.” 

“We’re doing everything we can to protect you from him.”

“Adding us to his collection of bonded inverts may not be the most sensible plan, Director.”

“His collection…?” The Director was gobsmacked, which looks bally awful on the commanding type of cove, who do much better casting about looks of lofty superiority. How he had not realized what he and Donnie had gone through was a bit beyond even the limited Wooster grey matter.

“It was difficult to ascertain, but we had a personal interest in understanding this phenomenon as a result of another investigation, Director.  It is most unsafe for Mr. Wooster and therefore for me.”

The Director left and we closed the door.  “Can we go now, Reg?  Please?”

Jeeves sighed. “I know he offered to let us go, but I checked the car.  The fuel line is cut. They will come after us if we do, Bertie.  We have to be brave now until we can devise a clean plan of escape.” I had never seen him so upset, so I stiffened the upper lip and hoped that we could think our way out.

 

**Jeeves**

A friend once told me that I was too sentimental and trusting. He was right.  I had trusted to my knowledge of the Director and his unfailing kindness to me as a very young man.  This was a mistake, and even though events proved that it was a happy accident, I have never forgiven myself for leading Mr. Wooster into such danger.

Mr. Wooster and I agreed to train for the weekend, an agreement made sadly necessary by damage to the car’s fuel line. We maintained our professional demeanor as much as possible unless we were locked in our rooms—joined by a bath—alone together, but the intensity of our training made it impossible to be as careful as we ought to have been. We learned to fence and to tumble. The last day, we were practicing our tumbling out on the lawn. It was a glorious afternoon, and Mr. Wooster was looking especially beautiful. His hair glowed in the sunlight and as he leapt to pin me to the ground, I reflexively pushed his hip and, catching him at the waist, flipped him over onto his back, much as we did during our more intimate activities. The next thing I knew, we were tangled together in a heap on the grass, my hand cupping the back of his head protectively.

A dark shadow passed over us, and the bitter face of an unpleasant old man looked down on us gloatingly. I suppressed the urge to vomit as he leered down at us, licking his cracked lips. The MI20 had discovered me based on a test score and had secretly promoted me to the rank of Colonel without my consent, tying my fate forever with an MI office that did not officially exist. The MI20 was an evil, bitter, twisted soul and I had fled in terror as soon as I understood that he intended to make me his closest associate and mold me in his image. My usefulness to the MI6 had protected me.  Or so I thought.  Foolishly, I did not understand that my horrified flight had also been part of his master plan. He had intended to hunt me down and break my spirit so that I would become twisted and bitter enough to continue his sinister work. The only thing he had not foreseen was my deep attachment to Mr. Wooster. 

“Jeeves. I see that I have finally found some…thing that you care about.  That is greatly to my advantage.”  He lurched away, and Mr. Wooster sat up beside me, shuddering.

“Bally unpleasant cove.”

“He is the MI20.” My voice took on a wooden quality. This was why we had been invited, so the MI20 could get a look at us together.

Mr. Wooster flicked his eyes at me, but pretended to pick at the grass.  “I didn’t know there was any such thing.”

“There is not, officially. Would you like to tumble more?”

“Not with him watching.  He makes me feel…dirty somehow.” Dear Mr. Wooster is always so attuned to my feelings that I should not have found his next realization as surprising as I did. “Wait… it was him.  He upset you that time in Cannes last year.  It wasn’t my new white dinner jacket at all.”

“In fact, I was very upset being seen with you wearing that jacket. I was teased mercilessly by the other valets for months.”

“Don’t change the subject.  You know I get confused easily when I’m upset. Can we go? Can we go home now?”

“Not with him watching.  We need to act as if he hasn’t bothered us.”

He stretched down, lowering his face so it could not be seen from the house and dropped his voice. “Please, Reg. Let’s just go. Please. You can burn the white jacket and all my pink socks and my new monogrammed hankies.”

I could have wept. “Bertie, they… you know how I feel about your pink socks. It would show such weakness to flee. We cannot show a moment’s weakness in front of him. He would go after all our loved ones.”

“All?”

Afterwards I always regretted denying him the chance to leave. Perhaps he would have been able to escape. “Sir, please. I’m so afraid to show weakness in front of him.  I am terrified of what he will do.”

As always, Mr. Wooster kindly attended to my feelings before his own. “We have some time before we have to dress.  Toss me and I’ll pretend to pull a muscle so we can go in and you can think.” 

I went to check the car again, hoping it had been repaired, but it was too late.  One of the tyres had been slashed. I didn’t say anything, but I knew that something terrible was about to happen.  Mr. Wooster took one look at my face and forbore to question me.  Dinner was not a success.  The MI20 called Mr. Wooster a filthy invert before we had even sat down. I put on what Mr. Wooster calls the “bronzed frog” face, which was so ferocious that Donnie was afraid to speak, and said that we were feeling unwell and regretted that we would have to go.  Our car was still hobbled, but I set to fixing it.  A servant came and, very kindly, cautioned me to go back to my room. The next morning, the Director knocked just after dawn.

“I… quickly, Jeeves. I found you another car. You’d better take Wooster and go now.  He’s on a rampage, calling him a filthy invert and threatening…it simply curls the hair. I drugged his tea and he’s sleeping it off.  I’ve written a report sending you off to South America to find the Wolf, and hopefully he will forget what he intended. No one knows, not even Donnie, what I just did. You have about six hours until he wakes. I cannot apologize enough, but it looks as if your professional alliance may have to end.  We can send Wooster away and keep him safe.” 

Of course, I would never trust my beloved darling to this man, well-meaning though he might be. Clearly the MI20 had done something to him and Donnie, some terrible thing, to keep them under his influence. Our greatest allies were now a danger to us.  I suppressed a howl of grief and rage, then thanked him and asked if he would be so kind as to send Mr. Wooster’s car to his Aunt’s house at Brinkley Court with a message to Mr. Seppings, the butler there, who had need of an extra vehicle for the summer months. Seppings and I had an arrangement. He would apply to M. Anatole, the chef, who was more than capable of discerning how it had been tampered with. 

I closed and locked my door, and went into the bedroom where Mr. Wooster lay sprawled among the sheets. I locked the door and sat on the bed beside him, watching his bare chest rise and fall. He so hated to be disturbed in the morning. I leaned forward and, murmuring the endearing names he liked to hear when he was sleepy, gently rubbed the place between his brows with my thumb until his eyes fluttered open. He looked bewildered, as he often did at these times, until he saw me.  His darling face burst into a delighted smile, which resolved into an expression of loving concern when he focused on me. He sat up and nestled under my chin in his dearly affectionate, confiding way. “I love you, Reg.  Thank-you for waking me gently.”

I rubbed his bare back and kissed the top of his head. “I love you, too, darling.”

He sat up and took my face in one hand.  I closed my eyes to will back the tears.  “Is it that bad, Reg?”  He kissed my forehead and stroked my hair.

“I’m so sorry. I should have listened to you. I didn’t want to tell you last night.  You were already so upset.”

We turned toward the sound of a sharp gasp, Mr. Wooster reflexively throwing a hand across my body in a protective gesture and reaching for the knives he kept under his pillow. The Director had used his keys to enter and caution Mr. Wooster to rise and dress. I had never seen the Director in any form of real distress, but he was clearly deeply shaken. Tears streamed down his cheeks and his body shuddered with suppressed sobs as he leaned against the doorway, wrapping his arms about himself almost convulsively. “Jeeves, Wooster, I cannot apologize enough. I had no idea. You never gave the slightest sign….” He stammered, then drew himself up. “Come this way, lads. Don’t make a noise.” He unhooked a trap door in the closet.  “Are your things packed?”  Mr. Wooster had finished packing them immediately after dinner. We lowered down the bags, then crept down the ladder. Mr. Wooster was still sleepy, and I kept close behind him as he descended in his bare feet. We moved together easily, almost like a single person. The Director watched me keep my arms around Mr. Wooster’s slender body as we climbed down, as if seeing the universe for the first time.

Once we reached level ground, I paused, and Mr. Wooster set his hand on my shoulder to steady himself while I hurriedly helped him put some clothes on over his pajama bottoms. The Director fished in his pocket for the keys. He fought back tears when he saw us standing calmly together, waiting.  Some profound change had been wrought in him. “Leave it at the dock if you can.”  I thanked him.  He stuffed some papers into my hands and we turned to go. “Jeeves, Wooster?”  We turned as one, and Mr. Wooster set his hand on my elbow. “There isn’t much time. Seeing you made me remember something, someone. I am compromised, but I will do my best to keep your secret. You can’t trust me again, not until the MI20 is dead. You must run. You have no duty to me, to the crown, to MI6 now except to keep each other alive, and you must stay alive. Run. Run away and hide.”

I turned to leave, but Mr. Wooster paused. “Thank-you.  Please keep yourself safe as well and… try, if you can, not to let him hurt our partners.” I was never so proud and honored to be associated with my lover as in that moment.

The Director’s mouth fell open. “You shame us, Mr. Wooster.”  

We left and did as we were told.

 

**Greystone**

The Director shook as he entered his bedroom and closed the door.  His partner, Donnie, was curled up in the bed, a familiar—and, he now realized, highly unwelcome—presence for over twenty years. The Director sat carefully on the side of the bed and gently rubbed Donnie between the brows.  He was rewarded with an angry slap and a hiss.

“What on earth?! Cyril Greystone, you ass! Have you gone utterly mad?”

The Director considered this question and concluded that he very likely had gone utterly mad as he had just defied the MI20, but it would not do to say so. Donnie did not handle change or pressure very well.  “Donnie, how do you feel about me?”

Donnie’s mouth flapped open in an all-too familiar gesture of befuddlement. He was good enough not to lie. “I… I don’t know, old cove.  How do you feel about me?”

At that moment, the honest answer was not suitable to be uttered aloud. Donnie, who had been his bedmate for more than twenty years, had just angrily repulsed a tender gesture, as he had repulsed every tender gesture for decades.  The Director froze. How did he even remember that there had been tender gestures?  Who had they been with?  The Director chose his words carefully. “Donnie, if we do not care for each other deeply and wholeheartedly, then why are we together like this?  It’s illegal and dangerous.  Why are we doing this?”

Donnie went still, as if he did not understand the question, and then his mouth twisted angrily. “By all that is…” But the tender gesture had done its work because Donnie had also once known what it was to love.  He shook himself, suddenly, and his mouth formed an ‘o’ of astonishment. “They made us, Cy.  Don’t you remember? What am I thinking of? Of course you don’t, you poor thing, not after what they did to you when you ran off that time. They needed to separate you from that young duchess or princess of wherever and they found me with, with…Roger, and they…” Donnie collapsed, sobbing, into the pillows. The Director remembered suddenly. Roger had died at Verdun, and Donnie had never had a chance to explain or apologize.

The Director rubbed Donnie’s back, and for the first time in their partnership Donnie allowed himself to be consoled.  “Thank-you, Don.”  The Director remembered now.  He remembered everything, but it would not do for anyone to know, especially not Donnie, whose chief duty was to keep him forgetful.  He fingered the vial in his pocket, the one he had used on the MI20, potent stuff he got from Mycroft for emergencies. “Here, Don, try to drink some water.  It will ease your throat.”  Don collapsed back onto the bed, and the Director started to cover him with a blanket, then thought better of that.  Donnie would never stir from the house with a cold.  The Director had about six hours.  Hopefully it would be long enough for what he had to do.  He began by calling Mycroft. 


	3. Spilled milk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie and Jeeves find a safe haven...will Stilton Cheesewright be able to do the same?

PRESENT DAY

**Paris**

**Greystone**

Wooster’s luxurious Paris flat was spacious almost to the point of sprawl. The Director poked around a nearly empty kitchen. A single clean teacup sat in the sink and a biscuit lay half-eaten on a plate. “Donnie?”

His life’s partner poked an anxious head out of the bedroom. “They’re not here. A few clothes, battered stuff mostly. Nothing out in the bathroom except a nearly empty vial of scented oil. Patchouli. And a torn flyleaf from a book.  Burns.  No one saw them leave.  No one saw them come or go.”

The Director opened the refrigerator. “The milk is fresh, Donnie.”

Donnie poured the milk down the sink and rinsed the bottle, and the sink, neatly. Not even Jeeves could have faulted his precision. “He never would have left that to go bad. They own this flat.”

The Director closed his eyes and counted to three.  Donnie was an excellent manager and domestic helpmeet, but he had never been the most skilled field officer. Of course, this was probably by design. “Then they were planning to come back and now they’ll know we were here since you threw out their milk.” He checked his watch. “Damn.  We don’t have time to get a new bottle. You’d better leave a beret so they know it was us.  Do we have any of the red ones left?”  He looked at the table.  “Here’s a cable.  Blast that arrogant bastard.  He cabled them.  Look.”

**_Leave Wooster. No further contact. Come MI20. Wooster will pair Cheesewright or both go Colney Hatch. You choose._ **

Donnie pursed his lips, clearly offended by the tone of something. “That does sound a bit mean-spirited.  Cheesewright is that large, rather rough, chap? I understand they did not get on well as boys.” Don examined the cable carefully. “It was delivered only a few hours ago.  We may have time to find them.”

The Director opened the cabinets and saw a few packets and tins and a map of Cannes.  That was interesting. Jeeves never left things lying about carelessly.  But Wooster might have.  He sighed and left the map. “Where on earth would they have gone, Donnie?”

Donnie guessed, knowing he would be wrong, but not much caring. “Jeeves is friends with those awful Frenchmen.  You know, the ones who are always trying to kill each other.  One of them has a country villa near Cannes.”

The Director considered this.  It would be a wise course of action, and MI20 was no friend of either of the Frenchmen. “Good point.  But that seems obvious.”

Donnie kept guessing and provided the answer he would give. “South America.  He speaks Spanish.”  Donnie loved South America.

“If only they would go to South America. They didn’t go there when I told them to hide two years ago.  I doubt they would go now.  The old devil is on his deathbed, finally.  How do we keep them alive until he finally kicks off?” The Director was beside himself.  His contacts could have kept them safe and in work until MI20 was ready to be replaced, but neither Jeeves nor Wooster would ever trust him now.

“What about London?”

The Director thought this through. “That would be direct.  If you were Jeeves, where in London would you go right now?”

Donnie thought about this for a minute. “His flat.”

“Wooster’s?”

“No, his.  MI20.”

The Director was impressed at the finesse.  Of course MI20 would want to get him back to London. “That was brilliant, Donnie.” Donnie made for the door, but the Director stopped short. Donnie never acquiesced to the better plans without a huge fuss. “Wait.  What would Wooster do?”

“Cy?”

The Director acted confused and thoughtful. “Wooster.  What would he do?”

Donnie frowned. “Wooster?  He’s almost impossible to predict, and he seems so mentally negligible compared with Jeeves.”

The Director considered this statement coming from Donnie who had just gotten them lost three times and damaged a scene.  Of course, those actions were likely intentional. 

The Director was, not for the first time, sorry he had not given Wooster more of a chance. “Think, Donnie.  Why were they in London? Stupid place to go, but Wooster is at home there.  Has his friends and his club.  Why are they here in Paris at all? From what we know, Wooster is wealthier than Croesus. He could have disappeared and lived a life of luxury and ease anywhere in the world.  What if they are doing this because it’s what Wooster wants?  You’ve spoken with him.  What would he want?”

Donnie frowned. “He’d just want to be comfortable and have a friend nearby. Oh, and Jeeves.  He’d just follow Jeeves… or maybe he would go to those Frenchmen?”

The Director never pretended to understand Wooster. He seemed a shallow sort of fellow, a pleasant companion and good company, but not very much more to him, especially if you missed the code of honor. He’d written the fellow off as a passing fancy for Jeeves until he saw the tenderness between the pair of them two tears earlier. The love behind their gestures still brought tears to his eyes when he thought of it.  Better yet, it cleared his brain when he had to drink one of the poisons Donnie kept feeding him. The Director still could not understand how, in that situation of absolute urgency, Jeeves and Wooster each had still taken the time to so gently reassure the other. They _knew_ their danger and chose to be considerate and loving with each other in the face of it _._ “He does like his comforts. Better cable the French.” Donnie looked very irritated, which was always a good sign.

They left.

G. D’Arcy “Stilton” Cheesewright stepped out of the servant’s room that had been skillfully disguised as a wall. Jeeves and Bertie had told no one else of its existence. Cheesewright read the cable again and grimaced at the empty milk bottle. Like Bertie, he had been unable to eat for days, but he felt shaky and he’d wanted that milk to power him through the rest of the night. “Blighters.  Stupid blighters.”  He opened the cupboard to lock the servant’s room and found a tin of milk, which would have to do.  The label was loose.  Inside was a note.

**_Gone to ground. Hie thee to safety old f. P.S. check cubby. Toodle pip._ **

He smiled and picked up the map of Cannes and unfolded it so that the Riviera was showing. He examined the few spots of oil. Safety meant only one thing to Bertie Wooster. He sniffed. Stilton Cheesewright knew exactly where to go.

 

**Bertie**

The next day dawned bright and early, as days so often do, but it seemed a novel and miraculous thing to one Bertram Wilberforce Wooster.  Reginald Jeeves had declared not only that he was mine, but also that he had viewed himself as wholly, and irrevocably, if that is the word I want, mine for some time.  I could have sang and danced like unto a chorus line, except that it might wake him, and he was bally exhausted, so I settled for nestling him in my arms and closing the peepers.  He stirred, making a sleepy noise that sent the Wooster heart dripping down through the corpus.

“Love?”

I snuggled him more closely and kissed him gently. “Shh, Reg, rest now, my very own darling.” His face went slightly damp.  “Ah, Reg, are you leaking at the edges?”  He lifted the dial from my shoulder to show that indeed the tears were wending their way toward his adorably stubbly chin.

“I am sorry.  I thought you knew.”  I stroked his hair and he rested his head against me again and closed his e.s.

“Shh, Reg, go back to sleep, heart’s delight.” He relaxed against me with another sleepy noise and I dozed off, waking again in another hour or so. 

I lay still and revolved past matters in the old bean. Perhaps I should have understood Jeeves’s feelings better. Every year, he had marked the anniversary of the day I asked him to hook the pinkies in some special way. The first year, he had presented me with a watch chain that had belonged to his grandfather, rendering Wooster completely speechless with shocked delight. I still wear it as frequently as possible, although it doesn’t do in many situations. The next year we exchanged engraved cases.  Jeeves had given me a card case engraved with “Life can be delish with a sunny disposish,” and I had chosen to engrave a cigarette case with “No sorrow can countervail the true exchange of joy.” To this day, he has been good enough not to comment on the mistake I made in the quotation.  Bally Shakespeare blighter.  When we are at home, Jeeves smiles his warmest, fondest smile when he opens it and thinks I can’t see him. But the locket was the first gift from him that I could wear nearly all the time, something that could remind me of him anywhere.  Of course, what I really wanted to do was bung a ring on his finger and have a bally huge party and cry out to my loved ones how I felt about him instead of dearly hoping that they had no idea what we did when we were alone together.

The blood suddenly went cold.  I must have stiffened in the region of the willowy limbs, because Jeeves was awake in an instant. “Sir?”

“Reg, what about our families?  Will he go after Mabel or Angela or… oh good god, not the baby…”

I was ensconced in the Jeevesian embrace before the sentence had passed the lips. “No, no, darling,” he soothed. “Please don’t be distressed. They are safe, love.”

I wriggled newtily and he let me sit up. I grasped his manly paw. “How do you know?”

The Jeevesian dial registered chagrin and confusion. “I made arrangements when we went into hiding.”

“You did? But you told me that there was no need to worry.”

“Because I had made the arrangements, love. You were so preoccupied with other matters that I chose not to tell you all the details. Mabel and Mr. Biffen and young Charles are with my Uncle in Paris and Anatole has alerted an associate to look after your cousin’s family.”

I sucked a deep breath into the Wooster lungs and released it. “Reg?”

“Yes, love?”

“Have we been more open with each other?”

He curled up the lips into a warm smile and gazed at me fondly, peepers twinkling. I felt the corners of my lips lift in response. “Yes, love, we have.”

“Then why are we still doing this?”

Jeeves sat up and tousled my hair, indicating that his heart had gone a bit soft. “Darling, think about all the things you try to spare me.” I turned a delicate shade of pink, like a carnation, and became quite interested in inspecting the sheets for tiny imperfections in the weave. “I believe that you and I have both been trying to protect each other.  I suspect, my love, that you put my feelings first from the time I received that cable.”

“Oh.  I did. I’m sorry I woke you, just now, Reg.”

“And I am sorry that I frightened you so badly these last few days, love.” 

“Are you sleepy?”

“No, love.  Are you?”

“No, Reg.”  He stroked the hair back from my face, and I cupped the side of his face with a hand. He still looked like a man desperately in need of four times forty winks.

“Did you have anything else in mind, love?”

“I was thinking, that, well, we never, er. You know, there are some, er, whatnot, that we, er, haven’t tried yet…” He flushed and I crawled into his lap and folded him in the willowy limbs.  “Oh, Reg.  I’m sorry. Not if you don’t…”

“You became so embarrassed when I tried to explain…” he stopped talking when the color of a boiled lobster emerged on the Wooster dial and upper corpus. Our, er, whatnot, was always completely topping, and we’d been tentatively pushing the boundaries until we hit a bit of a roadblock in the, er, ah. In short, Wooster had grown rather mortified at the possibility of the mess with some activities and we had desisted since there were so many other lovely things to try instead. The feelings I had reminded me powerfully of our first tentative forays into exchanging our affections. “Darling, are you certain?”

“I… Reg, part of me is so frightened and I feel… I need to be as close to you as I can and I need you to be as close to me as you can. None of the rest matters any more, especially now that we…” I fingered my locket. It did make a difference, I realized, now that I knew, really knew rather than just hoped, that we had in fact closed the knot for life. “Does that make sense?”

Jeeves kissed the Wooster forehead. “Of course, love.”

“It was rather embarrassing the first time we peeled off the underthings, and investigated the mutual terrain. Wasn’t it? But we did sort everything out in the end, didn’t we?” A fond glowing smile played across the Jeevesian dial as he admitted that I was, in fact, correct. “How long will we be safe here, do you think?”

“We could probably stay two weeks.”

“So we can spend the day?”

“We may need two, darling. I told the manager that you had been ill and needed a quiet rest before we went to Paris for some important business. I ordered our breakfast for ten o’clock.”

“It’s early now.”

“I’ll run the bath.”

“Now?”

“Love, this is new territory for both of us. I think we should feel as comfortable and relaxed as possible.”

“Oh, sorry, that’s not what I meant. I’ll do it, Reg, but are you certain you’re not sleepy? You look a bit frayed about the edges.”

“You are kindness itself, Bertie. In fact, I would like to close my eyes again.”

Jeeves is the more robust party in our alliance and normally the one who is up and about while Wooster is dragging at the heels and in sore need of a kip.  Thus, it was nearly unprecedented that I was feeling more boomps-a-daisy when Jeeves was knackered. A rather novel thought formed in the Wooster onion. “Reg, might I hold you until you fall asleep?”

A warm and tender smile formed on the Jeevesian visage. “I would like that very much, love.”  He looked a bit sheepish as he settled down.  “Bertie, would you be so kind…could we make spoons?” The heart liquified and oozed about the Wooster breast as I curled up behind him and rested my face against his shoulder.  He was asleep almost immediately and I dosed off soon afterward.

 

**Stilton**

D’Arcy Cheesewright slipped silently into the humble flat he had been sharing with his partner for some months, intending to crawl into his own bed in the servant’s room behind the kitchen. He heard a strange noise and poked his head into the master bedroom. “Wally? Are you all right?”  His partner, Wally Fortescue, sat up in the bed, clad only in his underwear.

“D’Arcy?”

Stilton closed the door and Wally turned on the light. He bore the look of a man who had cried himself to sleep not too long before being wakened. “Wally?  My goodness, what is the matter?” Stilton sat on the side of the bed and gave Wally a manly press of the shoulder.  It was as close as they had ever come to being affectionate, and they moved away from each other quickly.

“My word, D’Arcy.  What happened to you?”

“I’ve no idea what they have planned for you, but they want to pair me with Wooster or send us to Colney Hatch.”

Wally’s mouth opened and closed. “I thought we were…”

D’Arcy grimaced and rubbed the back of his head. “I think they mean something else, Wally.” Wally looked confused. “It’s MI20, Wally.  That sick bally blighter.”

 Wally blenched. “Oh no.”

“Indeed,” said Stilton wryly.  “I have heard he forces his pairs to...well. And Colney Hatch.  You’ve heard the stories.”

They resorted to humor in an attempt to deflect the horror of being asked to serve in such a way. “But Wooster and you?  I always though he looked a bit stringy, D’Arcy.”

“The ladies seem to like him well enough.  According to the lads at the Drones Club, he’s been engaged to Lady Florence Craye and Honoria Glossop and Pauline Stoker and Stephanie Bing and Madeline Bassett and possibly Bobbie Wickham. And they all seem proud of the fact.”

Wally laughed. “Is that all? He is handsome and wealthy, which must help, D’Arcy.”

“But…we never got on terribly well. We are quite different.”

“So, definitely not someone you’d be willing to…like when we were very tense those few times?”  D’Arcy blushed, and Wally’s face softened. “Ah, D’Arcy, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to embarrass you. There’s no shame in it. You know I don’t expect anything more of you.”

“Please, don’t, Wally.”

“As you wish,” Wally groaned. “I’m a bit knackered. Is it all right if I lie back down to rest?” 

“Wally? Do you think that’s enough?”

“D’Arcy?”

“That we don’t expect anything else?  Are we… is there any reason you took me and fled England? You did know about this, I imagine. We are on the run from MI20, aren’t we? You have clearly been shielding me from something, and your life is now in a degree of constant danger and it appears… there is a very strong appearance, that you cried yourself to sleep, Wally.”

Wally rubbed the back of his head. “Ah, D’Arcy.  I didn’t know how to tell you, but the truth is that they sent me …the MI20 wanted me to ‘bond’ to you some time ago.  Almost a year ago, I think. I’ve been lying to everyone… didn’t you wonder why there stopped being tension and I stopped unkinking your muscles for you with scented oils? You never asked, so I thought you understood. You know they think I’m rather gormless, so I pretended to be confused and they think that we never…. I just didn’t have the heart to use you like that. I know you prefer women and I am just…well, I am your friend. But, as you are asking, I do find you rather endearing, and I was extremely worried about you. Can I lie back down now?”

Stilton opened and closed his mouth. “Endearing?”

Wally grinned sleepily. “Yes, D’Arcy. Endearing.”

D’Arcy dropped his eyes. “I rather… I rather do like you as well, Wally.”  At the silence that followed, Stilton hung his head, and moved to get up. “Sorry, you should get some rest.” Wally caught his arm.

“Wait, D’Arcy.”  Wally moved with the exaggerated care of exhaustion, folding D’Arcy in a tentative embrace. “I was afraid something terrible had happened to you.”

“I, er, thank-you, Wally.”

 “D’Arcy? You’re trembling. Are you all right?”

“I…yes, I think.”

“I’m so bally knackered. Would you stay here while I get some sleep?”

“As you wish.”

“Come in with me if you like.”

D’Arcy kicked off his shoes and pulled off his close-fitting dark green sweater and trousers then shifted under the covers and looked uncertain. “I’m not quite sure….”

“Lie on your back.  Now give me your hand. Is that all right?” Wally’s tone grew concerned.  “Ah, D’Arcy, you’re still shaking.  What’s wrong?”

“I… well, I am deuced frightened as it happens. I have never been on this side of the law, not even in a small way, and now we are on the run from the MI. It’s all well enough for Wooster.  He’s been arrested plenty of times, but I... ”

Wally understood this to be a serious statement from a man who could take a bullet in one arm wile retaining his footing in order to protect a civilian with the opposite hand. “There’s no shame in it.  Here roll onto your side, no, away from me.  Is this all right?”  Wally slipped an arm around D’Arcy’s chest and pressed against his back. “D’Arcy, please do not worry.  I made a plan before we left. I’m going to fall asleep as soon as I close my eyes, but wake me if you feel too upset to rest and I will explain all.”

“I don’t know how to thank…”

“Shh, D’Arcy.” They each slept soundly for the first time in days.   


	4. On the trail of a wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie and Jeeves engage in fusion, but events heat up when they discover that a dead spy is, in fact, alive and needs their help

**French Countryside**

**Jeeves**

I woke to find that Mr. Wooster had risen, set out our breakfast, and returned to the bed to hold me until I awakened some time later. It was the first time in our association that I slept through his rising.  When I stirred, I found that he had been lying awake for some time watching over me. I had never felt such a sense of security. He tightened his arms around me and kissed the back of my neck.  I lay still while he nuzzled the back of my head for a few moments, then gently disengaged him so I could sit up and stretch my aching muscles. I felt greatly refreshed from my sleep and deeply comforted by Mr. Wooster’s caring presence.

“Now Reg,” said Mr. Wooster reproachfully from among the sheets while I twisted my waist to ease the tension in my lower back.  “Normally all is well between us, but at times an unpleasant truth must be spoken. I find, much to my chagrin, if that is the word I want, that I must needs point out a problem. In fact, and to wit, I was mid-nuzzle when you sat up, Reg.  I find this to be a grave and serious matter. Do I interrupt you mid-nuzzle, Reg?” He wagged a finger sternly and adopted a lofty tone. “I believe not, Reg. This is not to be born. When two men of iron will share a bed.…” I chuckled, and he grinned as I tousled his hair. “That’s more like, Reg. You have been lurching about like the grim reaper.”

I stretched and twisted, looking for one of our watches to check the time. “How long have I been asleep?”

“The breakfast came and I dozed back off with you.  It’s probably cold.”  The tea proved to be still warm, and certainly good enough for me to drink, but Mr. Wooster had more exacting tastes.  “I would have called for more, but…”

“Allow me.” For all the household chores that Mr. Wooster had mastered in our three years of close companionship, he still preferred it when I made his tea.  He smacked his lips in satisfaction when I returned from the bathroom a few moments later.

“How do you do it, Reg?  Even with stewed tea you can bung up a perfect cup for me every time.”

I looked fondly at my lover. Even after the years of our association, I still could not quite believe that I had had the good fortune to attach such a kind, affectionate, and generous man. “I believe, Bertie, that what you are tasting is love.”  He glowed and set down the teacup, then adjusted his pajama bottoms.

“Unless there is a more pressing matter to attend to, I’ll just run that bath that we were speaking of earlier, Reg.”  I flushed and shifted to adjust my own pajamas.

While Mr. Wooster attended to our bath, I surveyed the damage to our clothing with some chagrin and hung up a few items until I could have them pressed. My volume of the poet Burns, the back cover neatly mended, caught my eye.  I’d left part of the flyleaf in our Paris flat.  If the Director saw it, hopefully it would jog his memory and send him looking once again for the Wolf. The tiny key Mr. Wooster had found remained on my watch chain as we had not ever determined how to find its lock. Conveniently, it was a small, ornate key, and not out of place as an ornament. Much as I hated to acknowledge the fact, the time had come to contact the Wolf. We had no other options.  Mr. Wooster’s dear voice sounded from the bath and I slipped off my pajamas and went to him. We had more pressing matters to attend to this morning.

 

**Paris**

**Greystone**

The Director allowed an edge to creep into his voice as he sat with his companion and read the morning’s dispatches. “Donnie, it is simply not possible that any member of the French government opened an official cable to a member of the MI6 with the words ‘sacre bleu’ and then went on to say that they ‘have no bally blasted idea what the deuce’ we are asking them.  Did you cable them as I asked?”

Donnie fussed with the teacups and pushed one closer to the Director. “How can I help what they do, Cy?  It’s not my fault that they are such blighters.”

The Director counted to seven.  When he reached four, he saw Donnie slip a powder into his tea. “You’ll be drinking that tea, Donnie,” he said evenly. “And when you wake up, because I know you have much less tolerance to the stuff than I do, you’ll be telling me exactly what it is that you have done.  This deception of yours is over now.  Over.”

The portly man went grey. “Cy.  You’re supposed to close your eyes when you count. That’s what they said when they did those things to you…”

“Drink the tea, Donnie.  We have a lot of talking to catch up on when you wake up.”

Trembling, Donnie swallowed the tea without any argument.  The Director caught him as he collapsed and deposited him in a chair, then he called the hotel manager for an espresso and a pitcher of water. He sat down and methodically went through the paperwork in his bags and in Donnie’s until he found the dispatch he wanted. A cable, dated that morning fluttered to the floor.

 ** _Report, damn you. Get me J. Kill Director, W. if you must. Just find him. MI20._**  

The Director closed his eyes, then opened them and reviewed his situtation. Donnie was still unconscious in the chair, but he had drunk the tea reasonably willingly, which made it unlikely it had been poisoned. No doubt the MI20 was already on his way and Donnie had intended to turn him over for questioning. The Director took up all of his papers, and the overnight bags. He took all of their clothes and money, stripped Donnie naked, then slipped out, leaving the door unlatched and the hotel bill unpaid. Donnie would need at least a day to get new clothes and by that time, the Director knew, the poisons should be leeching out of his system. He would phone the office and say that Donnie had run off and was feared to be under the influence of some drug.  And perhaps that the MI20 had been kidnapped. Yes, and he himself was on the run from the kidnapper. He’d fabricate a ransom note in Donnie’s handwriting. That should cause enough excitement to slow them down. Then he needed a place to hide until he was well enough to find some help.

**French Countryside**

**Bertie**

One of the most bally fabulous things about belonging heart and soul to Reginald Jeeves is, well, generally it is all topping, actually, just smashing, and corking, and I am chuffed each and every time I wake up and see him next to me snarled up in the sheets. Where was I? Ah yes, one of the many simply wonderful and marvelous things is that, even when tensions are high, he is the kindest and most considerate lover imaginable.  Our situation was not the sunniest, but we had ankled up to another plateau in the Wooster-Jeeves alliance and we marked it in a bally corking manner by a tender exchange of affections. 

Wooster fidgeted in a dashed nervous fashion when Jeeves shimmered into to bath looking deliciously naked, his phallus already beginning to stand up in anticipation of our planned activities. Apparently anxiety radiated off the willowy form, because the Jeevesian tone betrayed concern as he folded the w. limbs in his muscular embrace and kissed the pate. “Love?  Bertie, you’re trembling.”

“Ah,” I said, twiddling with the one of the buttons on my pajama top.  “Trembling?”  He gave me a firm squeeze.

“Yes, I believe so,” he said, rubbing the slender back thoughtfully and pressing the quaking limbs against his manly breast.  “Would you allow me to assist you with your pajamas?”

“Ah, er, I, ah, of course, Reg, please.” Jeeves brushed the hair away from my forehead and placed a hand on each side of the dial.

“Bertie?”

“Yes, Reg?”

“You seem somewhat anxious.”

“Oh.  Anxious? Do I? Really? Fancy that.”  The voice was pitched a bit higher than usual and the twiddling became more pronounced until the button popped off and bounced around the floor.

“How may I ease you, love?”

“Do we have any of the sandalwood oil?”

“I’ve set the oils out by the bed, love.” 

“Ah, then, we should proceed.” He set one hand at the waist and pulled me against his hips, then unbuttoned the pajamas and slid them from the slender corpus. I sighed as our skins pressed together.  He then pulled out a jar of petroleum jelly. “I found one without that scent, love.”

“Oh, really? Fancy that.”

Jeeves pressed the willowy limbs against his muscular chest and kneaded the back of the Wooster neck.  I nestled against him gratefully, gruntled noises issuing forth from the throat. “Love, I realize that you suggested this exploration, but you seem terribly nervous and I really do not want to upset or hurt you.”

I struggled to stiffen the upper lip, and I slipped the willowy arms about his neck. “I really do want… I may be asking too much…could we proceed carefully and see how matters evolve?” He bent to kiss me, pulling me against him with some force.  I bunged a leg around him, and the next thing I knew, he had me up off the floor, with both my legs around his waist.  We were straining and panting like racehorses when he pulled back and began to direct matters. 

Before we got into the bath, he smeared me with the jelly in the needful areas and had me do the same for him.  I didn’t have to heart to tell him how I felt about it. The nostrils crinkled at the smell, but we had had occasion to use the stuff several times over the three years we had been spies, and I was beginning to associate it with him and not with anything unpleasant. The sensations were intimate in a very different way than our other activities had been, somehow more personal. We locked the lips and stroked each other in the various personal areas for some minutes and then disposed ourselves in the bath, Jeeves bottommost. We kissed and rubbed together urgently, and he stroked my bottom, which I always found blasted pleasant. “Love,” he said in his most solemn lovemaking tone, which was quite adorably breathy. “Please tell me if you want me to stop.”

“I love you, Reg.”  He chuckled and bit my lip and my chin, then rubbed my nose with his and met my eyes and stroked my very, er, personal bit, before he gently probed the indicated area. “Oh, Reg, I.. that is, ah.” I closed the peepers and rested the bean against his shoulder as he tenderly worked his digit, murmuring endearments into my ear.  I had never felt anything even remotely like this and as he rubbed a particularly sensitive area, the e.s. fluttered open and met his tender gaze. He’d been watching intently, gauging my reactions. I’d never felt so exposed to another person before, but I kept my eyes open as he continued to stroke that spot. He carefully twisted his fingers inside me and before I knew what had happened, I was climaxing almost convulsively, saying his name again and again while he told me that he loved me, and then I was tucked under his chin, shuddering in the aftermath, while he held me and kneaded my back. He was the only solid thing in the universe and I clung to him, almost desperately as I trembled and tried to gain control of the w. limbs.

“It’s all right, love,” he said when he felt me struggling.  He tightened his hold.  “Just relax. I won’t let you slip.” I rested against him, shaking, unable to speak or think while he stroked me and murmured in his deep, reassuring voice.  As I stilled, he lifted us from the cooling water in the bath and helped me dry myself.  “Perhaps that is enough for now, love,” he said, smiling fondly and holding me up as I leaned on his body, pushing as much of my bare skin against him as possible and making inarticulate noises.

“What about you, Reg?” he tousled my hair as I rubbed along his side.  I nearly purred.

“I set the oils out by the bed, love.” He set a hand at the small of my back and started steering me toward the bed. “But I find that, just now, I would like to hold you.”

“Ah, er.”  He settled us under the covers and wrapped the muscular arms about my corpus.  I nestled against him as closely as possible, and he smiled warmly and kissed me as I wriggled against him. It was almost as if all the skin had been peeled off my body and my soul, I felt that vulnerable, and I wanted to be as close to him as possible. I rather would have liked to have been able to get right inside his skin, but I settled for wrapping the arms about his neck and kissing him, for what felt like hours.  He ran his fingers through my hair and smoothed a hand up and down my back. It was bally marvelous, but underneath the feeling of comfort at the firm, reassuring way he was holding me, I was somewhat confused by his reserve, for I could feel him straining.

When my turn came for directing matters, I understood almost exactly how he had felt seeing me so vulnerable and exposed. I was so bally touched by his responses to me that I could not stop using endearing terms. He simply oozed tears. The heart nearly evaporated at the thought that he would let me see him like that. For the first time, I wished I was bigger, big enough to curl up around him the way he could curl up around me, but he didn’t seem to mind.

 

**Jeeves**

Mr. Wooster and I had once again underestimated our potential for giving each other physical pleasure. I was astounded at the intensity of his response to my ministrations and mine to his. In hindsight, it should not have been so surprising as we had spent three years carefully investigating each other’s preferences and by the time we embarked on these new intimate activities, we were nearly as familiar with each other’s naked bodies as with our own. We spent most of two days in bed or the bathtub, pleasuring each other. I could not believe the feeling of ecstasy I experienced when I felt him inside me for the first time or the sensation of utter abandonment when we climaxed together and lay, still joined until we regained control of our bodies.It was unaccountable, for such union could, I well knew, be exquisitely painful and awkward at first.   

On the third morning, we did our Swedish exercises and rubbed our muscles out. After we had enjoyed our scented oil together, we rested for about an hour and then bathed and dressed for a brief walk.  We would need to leave soon and I needed to think carefully about our situation as we were being pursued by a very dangerous person who was outside the reach of the law and human decency alike.   The scenic lake would be the perfect setting for the type of thinking that needed to be done. We would be safe for a few days longer and then we would need to find a discreet way to get into Italy and then to our villa.

I was speaking to a clerk at the front desk arranging for the room to be serviced and our dinner delivered at the needful time, when Mr. Wooster made a discovery.

“Jeeves, I say.”

“Yes, sir?” He indicated a man who was speaking with a concierge.

“Doesn’t that look a bit like your key, there?” It looked, in fact, nearly identical to my key.  The concierge wrote an address on a card, and Mr. Wooster wandered over and interrupted the exchange, feigning a great deal of confusion and speaking very bad French.  I had to stifle my laughter as he came back, looking sheepish.  I frowned at him and finished our transaction

“There is a bank in town, apparently,” he said as we left.  We walked some way in silence. “Reg?”

“Yes?”

“Who showed you this resort?  Was it your officer or your friend Georges?”

“Actually, M. Anatole told me of its existence.”

“Then why is your friend Georges here?”

I wrenched myself back from my thougths and looked up.  Georges was waving to us from the path that went around the lake. A curse escaped my lips at the realization that Mr. Cheesewright or M. Anatole must have been in some danger. Of course, the possibility also remained that Georges was simply here for a visit during the off season.

“Reg?”

“Did he come here to find us? Or for some other reason?  What did you tell Mr. Cheesewright?”

“I left D’Arcy a message to go to Cannes.  It was clever, I think. I marked the map with the scented oil.  No one else would know which ones meant something to me.” I looked at him patiently as he continued. “You know, Reg, when we talk about the oils. Sandalwood is safe and soothing and patchouli is spicy and exotic and rose is a bit skin crawling because it reminds one of beazels talking about God’ daisy chain, but it is safe enough for the nonce.”

“I see.  And you discussed this information in detail with Mr. Cheesewright?” I felt an edge of what Mr. Wooster might term ‘soupiness’ creep into my tone.

“Er, yes, but you were there when I did… perhaps we should review that aspect somewhat later? One of the marks was near Georges’s villa… sandalwood, but I don’t think they have met?” We veered off the trail and made our way to the town, stopping in the first café.  Georges joined us just as our espresso and croissants were served.

“This is a very good surprise. You are kind to order me a cup,” he said.  We greeted each other enthusiastically as we always did. “Your large friends are in some distress, Reginald.  They came to the village near my villa and stayed in the inn for one day, and then they went back to Cannes. They asked for men who looked like you. Also, I have a message from your other friend.”  He dropped a chef’s knife on the table.  “Your Director has disappeared, and his friend was found, naked and drugged, in a hotel room in Paris. He is in some trouble, I think, the Director.  A decent man, but he has been much abused.  I am going to Paris to meet him, and the chef suggested that this is a good stopping place.”

“I thought you two were mortal enemies?” Mr. Wooster asked.  “Is something changed?”

Georges dropped his affable smile and I saw, probably for the first time, why he was so very greatly feared among the spy community. “This MI20 is an evil man, my friend Bertram.  He is evil and we must put aside our other fights for now.  Your chef friend and I are enemies in many things, but not in this.”

“We are leaving tomorrow,” I said. George smiled again, looking like the man who saved me from a great difficulty when I was very young.

“You are very good, Reginald, but it was wiser for you two to hide for these days. Wait one more day, perhaps two, before you seek these friends. Send a cable to the large men and meet them elsewhere.  I think you have some old business here. It is a big matter, Reginald, much bigger than I told you. We were very near this place once.  Our camp was not so far from here.” Georges looked pointedly at the watch chain on Jeeves’s waistcoat and then toward the woods at the far side of the lake.

I nearly started. “Ah. I had forgotten. It looks very different now.”

“You were very young and very distressed.  Attend to this matter.  It is important also, but send Bertram to the bank. He should be the one to help you with this.  It is serious, Reginald, much more serious than you know. I will go now.”

“It’s rummy how he always appears like a guardian angel when we need him,” said Mr. Wooster, finishing his espresso with hardly a wince.  “Bung me the key and we’ll see what you have waiting.”

I handed Mr. Wooster the key and waited for him at the café, my heart in my throat until had his arm in my hand again. He was carrying a small bundle of papers and a large purse.

“That was rummy.  They asked about you.  The ‘young American’ they said.  I said I didn’t know anything about an American and they said… Reg, can we leave?  I don’t like this.”

I considered this. “Georges told us to stay for some reason, love.”

“He said not to seek Stilton, not to stay. I am sore afraid, Reg.  We can find another hotel, but I… please?”

We returned to the hotel and Mr. Wooster packed our things while I looked at the pile of papers.  There were reports and notes and letters.  Many were reports about me.  Most of them were carbon copies that simply described the missions we had been assigned to and praised the precision of my work, but several had both copies and the carbons still intact.  The first of these was a detailed description of my physique, from my interview with my officer.  The next described our first sexual encounter in a highly humiliating degree of detail. There was a report for each encounter until the day that Georges arrived at our camp and interceded for me with my officer.  I must have made a noise of dismay because Mr. Wooster had his arms around me before I had fully registered what I was reading.

“Reg?”

“It’s the missing paperwork… the reports the Director mentioned that were missing.  They’re here.”

“Oh no.”  Mr. Wooster gathered them up and tied them together.  “We need to get out of here, Reg.”  As I rose to follow him, we noticed that he had missed the final sheets.  They were on different paper.  I opened them with trembling hands and read the first paragraph.

_Lad, I cannot apologize enough. I should have burned these papers and I would have, but Georges insisted that we keep them. He said you would need to see them.  And that you would need to know before you would find the MI20 and stop him, that you were the only one who could do it. I hope I am still alive when you read this for I would dearly like to help you._

“Reg!” I made a final sweep of the rooms and followed Mr. Wooster down the stairs.  We paid our bill and went to the car.  As we sped off, I noticed an envelope wedged in the glove box.  It was from Georges.

_If you are leaving before dinner on the day I saw you… this is good also._

He had attached the card from a hotel.

“Reg, how far can you trust him?  Do we go?”

“It is not terribly far and it is in our way.”

“I don’t like this, Reg.  I don’t like it at all. How did he know this was our car?”

“Anyone would have told him it belonged to the Englishman, love.”

“Why did the man in the bank recognize you? I am terrified, Reg.”

I thought back to my days in the large French camp with Georges, the days before my officer and I had come to a more personal understanding.  There had been another young man, not much older than I, and we had been set to some tasks together.  He had come from a nearby town, he said, and he was pleased to meet me because he had never met an American before.  I hadn’t bothered to correct him and he had gone on to explain that he wanted to have a job in the resort so he could meet Americans. “Perhaps I knew him during the war, Bertie. Most of the French soldiers thought I was American. Please don’t be unduly distressed.”

“I want to get rid of this car, Reg. There were piles of money in the deposit box as well.  I stuffed them in my jacket and then in one of the bags.  Check the dates, Reg.”

I beamed at Mr. Wooster for having thought of such a thing and bent to check the cash he had taken from the bank.  As Mr. Wooster undoubtedly had feared, the dates on most bills were from well after the war. There was an envelope wedged among a pile of bills. 

 _1925.  Lad, I am still alive.  Be cautious with everyone, even G. He will not harm you if he can help it, but he may not be able to help it._  

I cursed. “They are new bills, Bertie.  He’s alive.  The Wolf is alive.”

“Is that good or bad for us?”

“I don’t know, Bertie, but we have to get to D’Arcy.  I only hope we haven’t made off with the Wolf’s only cash.”

“Do you want to go back and check?”

“No, Bertie, I trust your instinct to leave. Do you think we should go to the hotel?”

“We need to send a cable, Reg. They can do that for us while we look about.”

“Very good.” We sped off and I took the opportunity to think carefully through our situation.  I longed to read the rest of the papers, but felt it would be more circumspect to wait until we had some uninterrupted time.  Events would prove whether this instinct was correct.

 


	5. We are spies, Reg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stilton feels like a vast lummox. Jeeves and Berie's knowledge of silk underthings is discussed. The plot thickens. Bertie firmly protects Jeeves against embarrassment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> violence is mentioned but not graphically depicted

**Cannes**

  **Stilton**

D’Arcy Cheesewright woke with a start and lay gasping in a strange bed.  He gripped the mattress and concentrated on controlling his breathing, hoping he hadn’t woken Wally again. They had been in Cannes for three days and no word had come from Jeeves or Wooster. If Wooster had not left a pile of cash for them in the Paris flat, they would have been in dire circumstances.

Since the morning they had woken up in Paris curled up together in the same bed, Stilton had been struggling with his emotions.  He had avoided touching Wally, who had seemed slightly hurt at first, but quickly commenced a stance of gentle amusement that had unsettled D’Arcy still further. 

“Budge up, D’Arcy,” Wally nudged his partner on the shoulder. D’Arcy lay, panting like an animal caught in a trap, unable to move. He made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “D’Arcy, I can’t take any more of this. You’ve not slept in days and you need to get some rest. ” D’Arcy tried to speak, but he only managed a sort of gasp. Wally eased down on the mattress and rubbed D’Arcy’s chest. “Breathe, D’Arcy. We’ve got a cable.” He cleared his throat and read aloud, keeping one hand on D’Arcy’s heaving chest.

 

**_What Ho. Steel ten and R. Walleyed. STOP_ **

**_Sorry to have got you lost and what seat. STOP_ **

**_Biffing onwards, and all that, toward you, that is, and not away from you, as you see, err what seat. STOP_ **

**_Or will see, that is, err, what seat. STOP_ **

**_Oh, and do try not to get bunged in chokey. It would pip your uncle frightfully.  Bally firm cover, as I recall. STOP_ **

**_Two deal peep. STOP_**   

 

D’Arcy snorted. “Steel ten and Walleyed?”

Wally smiled. “Apparently they are in Paris and Wooster went to the office. ‘What seat’ is bally amusing, and your uncle is now a ‘cover’ not a cove.” He rubbed D’Arcy’s chest firmly with his large, almost beefy hand. “You’re shaking D’Arcy.”

Stilton rubbed at his forehead. “I am sorry. It takes me like this sometimes.  I… had some trouble at school, and I dream of it when I am upset.”

“You must have been extremely upset, as you have been waking like this for two days.  I wish you had said something.”

D’Arcy grinned wryly. “Well, stiff upper lip and all that, Wally.”

“Budge up, D’Arcy.”  Wally stood, stripped down to his underwear and sighed. “I’m going to climb over you.”

“Wait.  Let me try again.” Wally made a distressed noise. “Wally?” D’Arcy peeled himself up from the mattress just as Wally sat back down, curling over into a shaking ball. Affection did not come easily to D’Arcy Cheesewright, but his friend was in need, so he awkwardly patted Wally’s shoulder with a sort of slapping sound.  “I don’t know what to do for you, old cove.”  Fortunately, Wally had been raised by a kind mother.  He tilted himself down onto the mattress and pulled D’Arcy against him.

“Thank goodness they are alive. I was that worried, D’Arcy,” he whispered into Stilton’s shoulder, moving the corresponding Cheesewright arm around himself.  D’Arcy tried not to squirm and gave his partner a tentative squeeze but let go quickly, in case he’d hurt him. In his attempts at being affectionate with Florence Craye, he had been roundly criticized for being too rough and oafish.

“Er, is that all right, then? Not too oafish?”

Wally burst out laughing against D’Arcy’s chest and D’Arcy joined him from sheer exhaustion. “You are bally endearing, Cheesewright. We need some sleep and I clearly can’t leave you on your own again. Do you remember how to make spoons as we did in Paris or shall I show you again?”

D’Arcy thought a moment.  He remembered being held, but he was unsure what ‘spoons’ meant. “Is that… er, perhaps you should show me again.” He flushed uncomfortably and looked away.

Wally gave him a kind look. “I am happy to do so. There’s no shame in any of this, D’Arcy.”

“That’s what you said to me the first time we, er, had tension, that time in Paris. After the breakfast.”

“You seemed rather miserable and in need of comfort, as I recall.”

“We’re not really supposed to…”

“It’s reasonably all right here, D’Arcy.  We never have done in England, old cove. You know I’d not get you on the wrong side of the law if I could help it.”

 D’Arcy’s voice softened. “It was good of you to consider that.”  He rested his hand against Wally’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “I rather did like…” He colored again and looked away.

Wally looked up. “I rather did like as well.”

D’Arcy’s sounded sheepish. “Did you?”

“Yes. Very much, in fact.”

“But we were rather, er, businesslike about, er, matters.”

Wally’s gaze softened. “It seemed more your style, D’Arcy, but I do find. That is, D’Arcy, I think I’d like to kiss you, but I’ve never before….with a bloke, at least. Except for that time we had to, er… although that seemed…”

“Ah. Well, I never, at all, actually, except with you that time.”

“Not even Lady Florence?”

“Bandying, Wally.”

“Sorry. Never at all, was it?”

“Never at all.”

“Oh. I… Well, you must have tried.  Red-blooded lad like you, engaged and all that. Did she slap you, then?”

“Several times, actually. Quite soundly. Said I was a clumsy warthog with a vise-like grip and a vast pumpkin head. Dashed unpleasant.”

“I find that blasted surprising.”

“So did I.”

“Not even a housemaid?”

Stilton drew back and raised his eyebrows. “Not at all preux, Wally.  There is a code, after all.” Then he winked.  “They are all rather meeching, I find, anyway.”

“Perhaps.” Wally slid up and cupped the back of D’Arcy’s head, then moved forward slowly, stopping just before their lips met. D’Arcy closed the gap and then pulled back, looking down and blushing deeply.

Wally smiled and rubbed the back of his partner’s head affectionately. “Bally endearing, D’Arcy. Are you quite all right, then?” D’Arcy seemed to be having trouble deciding where to look.

“I… I don’t know.” 

“You’re shaking, D’Arcy.” Wally eased Stilton’s head against his own.  “Is this upsetting you? Do you want to stop?”

“I…Do you think we could have another go before we try the spoons again?”

Wally gave a smothered sound of relief and amusement. “As you wish.”  He set a hand at D’Arcy’s waist and eased forward again.  “Relax, D’Arcy.  Close your eyes.” Wally leaned forward and brushed his lips against his partner’s, pulling him close, then settling in and pressing more firmly against him. Their mouths slackened and D’Arcy responded eagerly, gripping the back of Wally’s head with a hand. He seemed to realize suddenly what he was doing, and pulled back and opened his eyes, blushing. Wally smiled. “That was something like, D’Arcy. I’d like another go, if you don’t mind.”

“But…isn’t this supposed to be all soft and gentle? I feel like I am… rather, too rough and oafish. Like a vast lummox.”

Wally snorted. “I like you as you are, D’Arcy. We’re both fairly robust specimens, in case you haven’t noticed. Not everyone has to be as soppy as Jeeves and Wooster.”

Stilton boggled. “What are you talking about, Wally?”

“Jeeves and Wooster. They are soppier than that god’s daisy chain woman you mentioned.”

“But Jeeves would never… and Wooster? He would never importune his manservant.”

Wally smiled patiently. “Jeeves is no mere manservant, but leaving that aside. I saw his expression when that blighter shot at you and Wooster. And no one in his right mind would choose Wooster as a partner to go up against the MI20 unless there was something more to it than that. Wooster ticked you off right good about something having to do with Jeeves, didn’t he?  Made a special trip to the club on his way to some costume event or other?  Seems more the sort of cove to mention such a thing in passing, if Jeeves was just his valet.”

Stilton turned this over in his mind.  “Why do you think they are soppy, then?”

“Watch them together. Haven’t you noticed how Jeeves cups the back of Wooster’s head when they tumble? Or rubs his thumb on Wooster’s forehead when he takes a crack to the skull? And why do they seem to know so much about scented oils and lotions and velvet eye masks and romantic poetry and flowers and silk underthings? Of course, they think I’m gormless, so they’re less guarded with me.”

“It’s not that at all, Wally. You treat Wooster so decently, even when he starts to gabble and say ‘whatsit.’ Wooster and I never mixed as well. He always was a coddled creature, and I am a fumbling beefy lummox.”

“He bears you no grudges. He actually gave me some advice about getting closer to you.”

“Wooster?”

“Yes, just before the MI20 sent me that revolting paperwork.  Took me aside and explained that some coves hide their deeper feelings behind a brash exterior.  He expounded on your finer qualities of bravery, determination, and forthright honesty for some time and spoke of the Code of the Cheesewrights, and noted that I seemed a ‘bally nice cove’ and not at all a ‘craven scooter’ although I have no idea what he meant by that. He also gave me a bottle of patchouli oil to try on you, which you did rather enjoy as I recall.”

D’Arcy reddened. “You asked him about me?  He gave you oil to put on me?”

“He has known you most of your life, D’Arcy. And he seems to like you well enough, despite your attempts to break his spine and butter the lawn with him, at his aunt’s house, no less. He seems a very kind sort of man, genuinely interested in seeing you do well and all that.”

“I was rather a brute… but we never did get on that well. And Florence does not bring out the best in me… or Wooster, for that matter.”

“You are an awfully endearing brute to me. Now, let’s get back to the business at hand.”

“As you wish.”

 

**London**

An evil, twisted old man turned the dial up another notch and watched as Donnie screamed and writhed under the electrical current. He had lost control of himself and the smell was beginning to be offensive. “Filthy invert,” he jeered.

There was a certain grim satisfaction in curing inverts.  It was more rewarding to have made them in the first place and then turned them back, almost as rewarding as dismembering those prostitutes before the war.  The ripping had been the best part, but the sizzle of flesh had its rewards as well. The man turned off the machine and instructed his assistant to hose Donnie off before they began again.

While the man was distracted, Mycroft slipped out the back door, an unconscious spy slung over his shoulder. The MI20 would collapse soon and he could slip Donnie out next. The Director had cabled.  He remembered again. Perhaps this time there was some hope for all of them.

 

**Paris**

**Greystone**

The Director lay on the narrow bed breathing shallowly.  It had been two days since he had eaten or slept, but he felt clearer and more focused than he had in many years.  The man with him was a French spy, a connection from the war.  His cheerful face was a welcome relief after the loneliness of the last days.  With his help perhaps the Director had a chance of success this time.

“Georges,” the Director gasped.

“Rest now, Director Greystone,” said the other man, gently mopping the Director’s brow with a damp cloth. “You have been badly used, and you will need your strength for the fight ahead of you.”

“I remember now.  We need to find the Wolf.  He has the key.”

Georges paused and turned this over in his mind.  “The key?”

“We need the key to destroy him,” said the Director.

“Sit up and take some water now.”  The Director drank and felt better. “You look better, but we must bring you back to London, and for that you must rest.”

“Thank-you for helping me.”

“No, it is you who are helping me.  You see, my good friend the Wolf needs for you to help destroy the MI20. You must be the one to kill him.”

The Director moaned. “He’s dead.  The Wolf is dead.  He has the key.”

“No, Director Greystone. He is not dead.  He is merely waiting.”

The Director’s eyes fluttered shut then opened.  “They hurt me.”

“I know,” said Georges. 

“You know?”

Georges nodded. “Yes. Do you remember?”

“Oh.”  The Director smiled. “You were the one who opened our doors.”

“Yes,” said Georges. “And you were the only one who tried to help the one who couldn’t run.  That was my brother.  I do not forget such a thing.”

“It wasn’t his fault. The chef. He didn’t know.”

Georges went completely still. “The chef?”

“He didn’t know… he tried. Ah, they hurt us.”

The French spy grew very thoughtful, but the Director did not notice. “Rest now.” The Director’s eyes fluttered shut and he slept. 

Georges went to his bag and unzipped a pocket.  He took out a timbale pan and sat to write a message.

 

 

**En route to Cannes**

**Bertie**

I may have noted and observed and, er, thingummy, that Jeeves had an understanding during the war with a cove known as the Wolf, an international spy of some importance.  Spies and their business seem always to be rather rummy if not downright, blasted unsettling.  Jeeves was bally, bally upset by the papers the Wolf had left him.  He showed them to me and Wooster reeled at the absolutely revolting nature of the betrayal.  This blighter had written down, in carefully exact detail, how the young Jeeves had reacted to every importunity, using the most repulsive language about his private bits.  Terribly, horribly not preux. Jeeves was beside himself with shame and mortification. Apparently, the blasted cove had shown a few of the documents to Georges. Of course, that last circ. seems to have ended the whole bash. This rummy Wolf blighter had seen the error of his ways and locked up all the paperwork in a French bank and given the only key to Jeeves.  It didn’t seem to make him feel much better. He absolutely cried himself to sleep in my arms, he was that upset, and I sat down to read the bally mess.

I couldn’t bring myself to read the reports about Jeeves.  It was almost as if I was molesting him myself, but some of the papers were quite different.  Apparently, the MI20 had used the war as an excuse to experiment cruelly on people, but he had done things even before the war and the Director had been one of those experiments.  They’d tortured him various ways, most lately with electricity, until he’d gone half mad each time, and then drugged him to suppress his memory.  I had to stop reading after a few pages, it was that upsetting.  Then I came across the letter this Wolf cove had left for Jeeves with the money. 

_… I know it is a great deal to ask, Lad, but I desperately need your help to destroy the MI20.  I know you have no reason to believe me or trust me, especially not after you have seen the repulsive reports I wrote.  I think you will recall the night in Georges’ tent when I quoted Burns and you asked me to stop.  Everything changed for me that night.  Georges had spent a great deal of time asking me about you between our other discussions, and I realized what a foul thing I was doing.  My regard for you was genuine, but your motivation for helping me should not be merely personal, Lad.  The MI20 is dangerous and must be stopped.  He has done such a manner of brutal things, and he has been protected until recently, but now it is safe, finally, to act against him._

_I know you’ve been working as a servant and may lack funds.  Don’t be concerned about me.  I hardly deserve it_

The bean reeled.  Perhaps Jeeves was also upset because he continued to have some feeling for this cove. Clearly, he was much brainier than self, and had a liking for the things Jeeves liked.  What if Jeeves regretted tying the knot with Bertram?  The whole yarn was suddenly too much, and I was in the bathroom retching when Jeeves staggered in, looking spent and tear-stained.  I stood up and rinsed the mouth and brushed the teeth, then I helped him wipe his face.  He took my hand and led me back to the bed.  We peeled off the clothes and curled up together.

“Reg, if you regret, er, that is, if you want to be released…”

He gasped in shocked dismay, clutching at me rather endearingly. “Do you wish to be released?”

I cuddled him tenderly. “Oh no! No! I bally well do not wish. It… er, this letter seems genuine and you seem so very upset. I would not want to hold you to anything if your prior attachment, who you thought was dead…”

Tears oozed up in the Jeevesian peepers, but he was smiling. “I do not deserve your affectionate regard, Bertie. I would much rather not be parted from you.”

“Then, Reg, I must confess myself very lucky.  I love you utterly and completely.” We clung to each other.

“I am so shattered, Bertie. I do not know what to do. I am terrified of the MI20.  I am terrified of what he will do.”

“Perhaps Stilton can help.  He has considerably more brain than self.  We can omit the details.” I shuddered.

“We are expected at their flat tomorrow.  We should read the papers carefully, Bertie.”

“But they are so revolting.”

“I agree, love.  How much did you read?”

“I couldn’t read what he wrote about you, Reg, but they got hold of the Director and some other coves.”

“I hate to drag Mr. Cheesewright into this.”

“He is awash with manly fortitude, Jeeves.  And I suspect that Wally is not as gormless as he acts.”

“Not at all. He has evaded the MI20 and protected Mr. Cheesewright for some time.”

I boggled. “Jeeves?”  He frowned.  When we were alone, I only called him that when I was in a panic.

“I thought you understood, Bertie.  When the MI20 could not get hold of us, he tried to get hold of our partners. You asked the Director to help them.”

“I was only trying to be preux.”

Jeeves got a very serious and solemn look about the dial. “Bertie, no matter what happens, please remember that I love you deeply and utterly.”

“Why are you saying that?”

“Because we may need to practice deception. In the past you have sometimes mistaken my motives.”

“Oh. Is this like the time you let Spode smash me on the back of the head?”

“I hope it is as gentle as that, Bertie. I am terribly afraid of what I will have to ask you to do.”

I became very afraid myself. “I’ll do anything you need, old top.  You know that, but I would strongly prefer it if you do not engage in any whatnot with anyone else.”

He shuddered. “I would never do so willingly.”  He stirred.  “I should read.  You look exhausted.” I was bally exhausted. I had done most of the driving and sat reading for hours while he slept. “Do you want to rest?”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Close your eyes, love.” I did as he requested and he cradled me against him and rubbed the place between my eyes until I fell asleep.

When I woke, I was alone in the bed, and a terrible fear gripped me that he had gone off to attack the MI20 leaving me behind.  I must have uttered a cry, because he had shimmered into the bed an instant later.

“I have read enough, love. I know what must be done, but I fear I lack the strength to do it.”

This sounded ominous. “What must be done?”

“We must go back to England and we must kill him.” He huddled up in a miserable Jeevesian ball of upset. 

“May I hold you and rub your forehead?”

“Thank-you, love.”

 

**Jeeves**

I was unaccountably moved by the letter from my officer, which released a torrent of grief for the loss of his friendship.  Although I was deeply grateful for my partnership with Mr. Wooster, I wept for my officer and for the others whose lives he had ruined.  Of course, the reports hinted at some deeper, even more disturbing evil, and I shuddered at the thought that kind, generous Mr. Wooster had become embroiled in these dangers by my agency.  Naturally, he is willing to do whatever I ask, and he is so strongly regulated by his code of honor that he will never break his word.

When I awoke, Mr. Wooster was lying awake, curled around me, with his face buried in the back of my neck.  He felt me stir.

“Reg?”

“Yes, love?”

“Do we have time to exchange some affections? I find myself in need of some comfort.”

“What would you like to do?”

“Do you remember the first time we had dinner together in the flat?”

“Of course, love. It was one of the most important nights of my life.”

“Mine as well. I’d like to… er, you do remember everything?”

“Quite distinctly.  Shall we have a bath together first?”

“Yes, please.”

 

After we had dressed, I sat Mr. Wooster down and took his hand.  “Bertie, I am very afraid of what will happen to us.  I know you read some of those papers, but I need to explain some things to you. If the MI20 catches you, he will do those things to you, and he will likely do the same to Mr. Cheesewright.  In the past, I have not explained my plans to you and you have forgiven me for the harm that befell you, but this time, I must ask you to understand what we are doing.”

His face worked in shocked horror as I explained. “They’ll use electricity on our private bits? And laugh?”

“Very likely, love. I cannot let you follow me unless you understand the dangers.”

He thought about this for a moment. “But…would they do that to you or Stilton or Wally?”

“Yes, love.”

“And they’ve done it… to other people? To the Director cove? Who helped us escape?”

“Yes, love.”

Mr. Wooster forced himself to sit up straighter. “Then, how could I not do everything I can to help? I can’t allow you to be in such danger alone, Reg.  Please don’t ask me to run away.”

He was white and shaking, and I took him in my arms. “Bertie, I love you, and I understand your feelings, but I may have to ask you to let them take me.”

Mr. Wooster went rigid with shock and anger. “No, Reg. Whither thou goest. They will take me before they take you.” I opened my mouth to protest. “No, Reg. No. I forbid it, Reg. This is final.” I had never seen him so firm, even over his purple socks.

“Now, then Bertie, I do outrank you.” I reminded him mildly.

He was not to be swayed. “No, Reg. Not in this. This is between us, Reg, as spouses, and I say no. It is my duty to protect you from harm, Reg. The iron has entered the Wooster soul. I will not allow you to hand yourself over to such a monster. Your private bits will never be… No.  It does not bear thinking of.”

“Dearest Bertie, please, be reasonable.”

The look of calm anger on Mr. Wooster’s beloved face was absolutely new to me. “No, I say.” He paused to gather himself and I caught a hint of the terror behind his anger. “I…Reg, I realize you deserve some explanation. I do not like to admit this aloud, even to you, but … I would not be able to save you if you got into that type of soup. It would be beyond my abilities and I would die a thousand deaths, Reg, to know how I failed you. You are the far more clever and brainy party, and I beseech you to remember that you would be well able to save me, even if they laid hands on the Wooster corpus.  I must forbid this.  You must use me, and not yourself as bait, if bait must be used.  You are the only one who can think your way through this. I am unequal to the task, Reg.”

I folded him in my arms. “You shame me, love. I never considered that aspect of the case.”

“Promise me, Reg.  Promise me that you will not go in there alone.”

“I promise, love.”

“Good. I thank you, Reg. Now please be so kind as to uncross your fingers and look into my eyes and promise again as my spouse and a colonel in the MI6.”

My heart bled as I did what he asked.

“Thank-you, Reg.  I know that was difficult for you, but in time you will see that it was the wiser course.  And now I am going to burn every one of those papers that has a description of your private bits.”

“Georges said we needed them.”

“You destroyed all those blasted pages from that Junior Ganymede Club Book to protect me from that blighter, Reg.  I must do the same for you. Besides, I am quite certain they have done their work, Reg.  He asked you to let me retrieve them for some reason, likely he assumed I would read them.  I cannot leave open the possibility that you will be shamed by anyone else seeing them. It is not to be born.  It is my duty to protect you in these matters and protect you I will.”

“If you burn them, what proof will we have that these things happened?”

“We are spies, Reg. We must sometimes act outside of the law.”

 


	6. Lavishing affections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stilton tries to be soppy and seeks Bertie's advice in re: lavishing affection. Something rummy happens.

**Cannes**

**Stilton**

At dawn, D’Arcy Cheesewright woke in the comforting embrace of his friend and partner.  They had fallen asleep while pashing, and he shifted to rise and adjust the shutters.

“D’Arcy, no,” Wally murmured, grasping him.

“I’ll be right back.  The light is bothering my eyes.”

“Ah, very well.”  Wally sat up and watched him as he moved about the space in his underthings.  “Is there any water?”

“I’ll be right back.”  While D’Arcy ran the water in the bathroom, Wally pulled out a folder of papers from the MI20.  His face hardened as he looked at them, but he referred to a list with some interest. 

“What are those?”

Wally handed them over.  “They have been asking us to fill these out.”

“This is revolting, Wally.  What is this, even?  There’s no such thing as the official MI20, is there? It’s just that blighter.  Who would have made up forms?”

“Not officially, not.  But it seems to have been made up some time ago.”

D’Arcy skimmed down the list while Wally drained his glass of water.  “Indoors, outdoors. In hotels. On a divan. In a field. In the bath. With farm animals?!”

Wally boggled. “What?”

D’Arcy pointed. “Look at this. Farm animals. They want us to have… relations with sheep? What type of sick monster thinks of these things?”

Wally smothered a laugh at D’Arcy’s reaction, then he referred to the list and the corresponding notes pages. “Ah, yes…I believe that you would be having those while I observed and took notes, D’Arcy.”

A droll look planted itself on D’Arcy’s features. “Of course, that does seem much more logical, in fact. Can we burn these foul papers or do you need them?”

“Perhaps later. Jeeves will need to see them.”

“What? How humiliating.”

“Not for you, really. I’ve never filled them out and I’ve tossed out all the drugs I was supposed to be feeding you.  But more importantly, D’Arcy, we dozed off last night.  I had something more in mind.”

D’Arcy sat on the bed. “They are coming, you know.”

“Not for some hours.”

A realization flashed across the Cheesewright countenance. “You blighter.  You were using that list to decide where we should… Let me see that. Right. Bed and then bath, I think.  No sheep. Ever. And you will burn this.”

“As you wish.”

“Thank-you. Would you like to try being soppy?”

Wally snorted. “You just called me a blighter.  That’s hardly soppy.”

“Well, I didn’t promise to do a good job at it.”

“Fair enough. All right, then.” D’Arcy’s mouth opened and shut.  “You did offer, D’Arcy, and there is a code, I believe you said. Now close your eyes and…” D’Arcy tumbled Wally onto his back. Wally smiled fondly and started unbuttoning D’Arcy’s undershirt.  He reached up and kissed the exposed skin, and D’Arcy’s mouth slackened. “Clearly you will require some tuition, D’Arcy, but there is some hope for you. Fortunately, my mother was a very kind, gentle woman who lavished me with affection as a small boy. Lie down beside me, please.” Wally patted the mattress. D’Arcy blushed, but did as he was told.

 

**Bertie**

It appears that Stilton and Wally have finally started to engage in a rather nicer form of, er, whatnot together. They are bally endearing, for such huge beefy coves, and I slipped Wally a bottle of jasmine-scented oil when Stilton was occupied speaking with Jeeves. Wooster and Jeeves were both quite chuffed when they wholeheartedly and without question agreed to accompany us and snuff out the MI20 and all his works.

“Blighter,” said Stilton, clenching a fist in the manner of a Cheesewright contemplating the snapping of spines and buttering of lawns.

Wally beamed at Stilton as though he was an infant saying his first word. “I agree.  It must be done.”

Jeeves cleared his throat seriously.  “You know I am the ranking officer, but, as you have agreed to risk your lives, there is something more you should understand, and something I would not normally have shared. The MI20 chose me as his successor and he has been hunting Lt. Wooster for the past two years because he views our alliance as the primary obstacle to obtaining my services.”  The jaw flapped, and his peepers bored through the Wooster soul.  I felt like the dog McIntosh when spoken to sternly.  “Therefore, you must stay with one of us at all times.  He will torture and kill you if he lays hands on you.”

Stilton growled. “He’ll have to get past me, first. What else do we have?”

Jeeves kneaded his brain-enclosing forehead.  “The Director is missing, but we have a contact who may have found him. Mr. Wooster and I will go to the cable office to check.  We have the good will of Mycroft, who at times _is_ the government, but seems strangely hampered when he tries to act. The MI20 is no longer protected and he is, I believe, dying.”

“What about the Wolf?” Wally asked.

“He is alive, we think, but we do not know where he is.”

“Jeeves, I mean, Colonel…” started Stilton.

“Jeeves is preferable,” said Jeeves.

“If the MI20 wanted Wooster and I to, er, ah… would it not be better if we were seen together?  Would that show him that we were weak, and make him feel more secure and careless.”

Jeeves did a passable imitation of the obelisk in the Place de la Concorde.  I could almost see the wheels working in his head. “You are correct, Mr. Cheesewright.  I think you and Mr. Wooster should go to the telegraph office while Wally and I determine what we will need for our trip. We have little time. I’d like to speak with Mr. Wooster privately for a few moments.”

We ankled into the bedroom and shut the door. “Bertie, love, I am not thinking clearly.  Please stay with Mr. Cheesewright at all times.  Do not, as you would say ‘ankle off’ to buy any ‘fruity’ items of clothing, I beg of you. You can take the car and we can all meet again in London.”

The iron had entered my soul.  “No, Reg. We garage the car and take the same trains and all travel together.  It’s not safe to split up, for any of us.”

Thankfully, he conceded, if that is the right word, and after picking up a cable from Georges, we stored the car and all of our goods and chattels except the needful paperwork and our overnight bags and trooped off toward London. Jeeves opened the cable on the train.

**_Both are alive, R. We will see you at your old home. G._ **

“Not bad,” said Stilton.  We ankled off to another compartment so Jeeves could have some time to think quietly while Wally read dispatches or some other boring thing. I was knackered, having done all of the driving in the last two days so Jeeves could have some peace to think.

“Rummy, though.”

“Bertie, Wally tells me that you spoke to him of my finer qualities.”

I flushed. “I am sorry, Stilton, if you feel that was not preux.”

The Stilton countenance took on a pinkish hue. “On the contrary, Wooster.  I am most thankful.”

“Say no more about it, old bean.”

“I wonder, Wooster, if you could give me some advice.”

“Advice?”

“Yes. You seem to understand the softer things, Wooster. I know I have called you coddled in the past.”

“Too true.”

“Well, you are coddled, in general, Wooster.”

I opened the lips to protest hotly, but the Cheesewright tone was more open than usual, so I shut the gob. “Compared to some, I suppose,” I said, grudgingly.

“Exactly, Wooster. You are more coddled compared to, for example, me.  And I find that… how does one exactly, er, lavish affection?”

Wooster reeled and tumbled to the floor of the compartment.

“You are still an ass at times, Wooster,” Cheesewright spoke with a certain tone of fond amusement as he levered me roughly from the floor in a meaty hand, leaving a few ripe bruises for Jeeves to discover and fuss over later than evening. “But I would be very grateful if you could offer any hints.”

“At lavishing affection?”

“Yes.  I am asking as a schoolmate and a Drone, you understand, and in strictest confidence.”

“Ah. Affection. Well, I find, Cheesewright, that certain times call for lavishing.  Do you know that feeling when the heart turns to a lightly jellied liquid in the breast?”

“Er,”  Cheesewright was nonplussed.  “Jellied liquid?”

“Yes, the, ah, object of your affection, as it were, must from time to time be somehow especially touching or adorable or, perhaps, upset and vulnerable.  The heart begins to melt a bit at these times, you see.”  The pumpkin-shaped Cheesewright visage was a study in befuddlement, chagrin, and confusion. “The heart does begin to melt, does it not?”

“Er, that sort of tense feeling? Generally that is when one cracks a joke.”

“Ah. No, the melting comes after the tense feeling. Joking is a mistake if lavishing is the goal, Cheesewright.  You see, the melting is necessary, or all you have is jocund amusement.”

“Jocund amusement?”

“Exactly.  What you want is to open the Cheesewright heart and allow the object, as it were, to see the softer side of, er, you.”

“What if I do not have a softer side, Wooster?”

“You were engaged, old fruit.”

“To Florence Craye who eats ground glass at all meals.”

“I thought it was just breakfast.”

“Bandying, Wooster.”

“She is my cousin in law, Stilton.”

“Ah. I forgot. Yes, all meals, Wooster.”

“Stilton, old bean, I believe that you must have a softer side or you would not now view my antics with fond amusement rather than breaking the spine in six places and buttering the lawn with the Wooster remains.”

I have observed that the Cheesewright countenance is not a subtle one and the emotions tend to flash upon it in a rude and obvious fashion.  Such was now the case, as the C. visage resolved from anxious to relieved.  “Ah, Wooster, I do thank you.  You are quite right.  I shall try not cracking a joke and see what happens.”

“All in a day’s work, Stilton.  I find that I am bally knackered.  Would it be terribly rude to close the e.s?”

“Of course not, Wooster.”

I fell asleep and woke against the beefy, and somewhat uncomfortable, Cheesewright shoulder. The Wooster neck was at an awkward angle and the Cheesewright form was stiff and unyielding. Stilton started, looking highly discomfited, but Jeeves and Wally, who were in the doorway of the compartment, looked highly amused. I blinked up sleepily as Jeeves took Stilton’s place and Wally led Cheesewright off. I thought I heard him say “bally endearing,” but perhaps I imagined it.

“Reg?”

“Yes, love.”

“Do you feel more settled now?”  He kneaded my neck where it had been bent at an odd angle.

“Yes, love. I do feel more settled. Wally is a very careful reader and we reviewed all the paperwork we collected. We will have two more days.”

“Good.  Your shoulder is so perfect for resting on. May I?”

“Yes, of course, darling.” He slipped an arm around the slender form and shifted so the bean could settle comfortably against him.

“Now that you have had time to think, are you glad or sorry I burned those reports?”

“I am very grateful, love. I would have been highly shamed if anyone had seen them.”

“Can we have our own room tonight?”

“I believe that can be arranged.”

 

**Jeeves**

Wally proved to be a welcome help and aid in this time of crisis.  He helped me carefully review the paperwork we had both collected and listened quite patiently while I explained that I, too, had been affected by the machinations of that evil man.  We spent some hours in close conference and determined that we would need to be willing to kill the MI20, a task neither of us relished, sadly necessary though it was. After we had reached a natural stopping point in this work, we went to see what had become of Mr. Wooster and Mr. Cheesewright, and found them sleeping.  Mr. Wooster’s head was balanced precariously on Mr. Cheesewright’s shoulder, and even in sleep, Mr. Cheesewright seemed highly uncomfortable with the contact.

“He is bally endearing,” Wally observed.

“I presume you are referring to Mr. Cheesewright?”

“Of course. I naturally leave any assessment of Bertie’s endearing qualities to you, sir, given your longstanding professional association.” He then winked at me. “Not that you would make any such assessment to me.”

“Indeed not.”

I have often observed that Mr. Wooster retains his resilient good spirits even in times of great crisis.  I found, on joining him in his compartment, that he had been giving advice on exchanging affections to Mr. Cheesewright.  It was all I could do not to burst out laughing when Mr. Wooster explained the situation.

“Reg?”

“Yes, love?”

“Does your heart melt a bit before you lavish me with affection?”

“At times, love.”

“Only at times?”

“I feel quite affectionate toward you generally, love, and you are so openly receptive to my overtures that it is quite easy to be soft with you. It is such a pleasure to see you enjoy my attentions.”

“Even when I wear a poncho with my dress trousers?”

“That was most vexing, love, and I was very hurt by it. I am still mortified that you wore that garment in public. Why are you asking me about this?”

“I, er, was asked to give some, er, advice on, er, lavishing affection.”

“I take it that you are not breaking Mr. Cheesewright’s confidence in this matter?”

“It was dashed awkward, Reg.”

“I can only imagine.”

“Can you imagine what it would have been like for us if one of us were so shy and backward?”

“I imagine that we would have remained master and manservant.”

“Please do not say such things, Reg.”

“Love?”

“Yes, Reg?”

“Does your heart melt a bit before you lavish me with affection?”

“Er, yes, generally.”

“I believe you may look forward to some lavishing later this evening.”

We stopped for the night and planned to take a late train so that we could exercise and train.  It had been some time since Mr. Wooster had had an opportunity to practice throwing his knives with anyone except me, and it seemed important to be as well prepared as possible for every eventuality.

 

 

**London**

**Greystone**

The Director sat in his office at MI6, looking frail but alert.  Mycroft was wedged in the chair opposite the desk, his fingers steepled together thoughtfully. “I take it that he will agree to see me?”

Mycroft frowned over the tops of his fingertips.  “You have not shaken him, no matter what you think, Director.  You cannot approach him alone or you will fail.”

“Then what do we do?”

“We wait for Jeeves and Wooster.  They are on their way.”

The Director was out of his seat and at the door in an instant.  Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  “No. I told them to hide.”

“The Wolf did his work and they are on their way.”

“Not those boys, Mycroft.  Have you any idea what he will do to them?”

“We can protect them from the worst harm, Director.”

“Can’t we just wait until he dies?”

“No, Director, he must be killed and you must do it.”

“I don’t understand why.”

“You will in time.  Read your notes again.”

“What happened to Donnie?”

“He is in a hospital receiving care for his injuries.”

“Is there some other way, Mycroft?  I don’t like to risk them. They are so young.”

“No, Director.  It must be this way.”

 

**Bertie**

We were no sooner in London than I landed in the soup.  Stilton had stepped off for a moment to buy a newspaper, and some blighter biffed the back of the Wooster bean, bunged a sack over same and was dragging me off with a high degree of roughness.  I struggled like a cat in a sack, and just heard Jeeves calling. “Sir?”  I could have wept at the worry in his tone.

I dragged the pins, scuffing my shoes and struggled, flailing desperately when a most welcome “Ho!” sounded and I was grasped firmly by a meaty paw. The bag was dragged from off the dial and, just as I was opening the gob to thank Stilton fulsomely, all went black.


	7. The darkest hour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie and Stilton in durance vile. Affections are discussed. Jeeves finds a way.

**Jeeves**

Mr. Wooster and Mr. Cheesewright were abducted at the train station, and only Georges’ intervention protected me and Wally from a similar fate. Georges lied to me, indicating that his associate had freed Mr. Wooster, or I would never have left. We collected ourselves in a shabby flat.  I was beside myself and only with difficulty kept my seat.

“Please, Reginald.  Mycroft is coming.  He will help you.”

The most awful visions passed through my mind. “Georges, what will they do to him?”

The Director entered the room.  He had aged considerably in the previous two years. “He likes to beat them for a couple of days before he uses electricity, Jeeves.  Hopefully we can have them out before then.  We took the liberty of collecting your bags, since we believed them to contain some sensitive paperwork. I dearly hope you have the key with you.”

“The key?”

“The Wolf left a language key in his descriptions of your… encounters during the war.  We will review them together.  It contains a code that will unlock one of the doors in the underground. Something valuable is hidden there.  We need to find it and draw him out.  Then Mycroft can free Wooster and the other one.”

I went white.  “The ‘other one’ is D’Arcy Cheesewright.  The papers are gone. Mr. Wooster found them offensive and burned them.”

Georges gave the Director a triumphant look, then smiled his warmest, most expansive smile.  “He protected you, then, Reginald.  That is very good.” He grasped my hand.  “You will protect him, now.  I hope you saved the key to the deposit box then? You will need that afterwards.”

“Where are they?” Wally looked grim, suddenly older and more serious.

The Director pulled out a file.  “The MI20 has an office in London, near my own.  There is a large basement attached to the building, where he carries out his… activities. Mycroft has constant access and will be able to find where your friends are being kept.  We need to…I will need to accompany you when we release them.  This is my battle, and I must fight it myself.  Jeeves, I am very sorry to have dragged you and Wooster into this.”

Wally and I exchanged a look. “I believe Mr. Cheesewright is also in mortal danger, Director.”

The Director paled and sat down.  “You shame me, Jeeves.”

 

**Stilton**

A door clanged. D’Arcy Cheesewright woke on a hard shelf of a bed, feeling sore and battered. He tasted blood in his mouth and the back of his head throbbed. Bertie Wooster lay sprawled on the floor in his underclothes, shivering and moaning faintly.  Huge bruises bloomed on his limbs.

“Blast,” Stilton pulled off his jacket and carefully lifted Bertie up, wrapping him in the warm fabric.

“Jeeves?” The tone was pathetically hopeful, and D’Arcy felt the melting sensation in the breast that Bertie had told him about on the train.

“No, Wooster, it’s D’Arcy.” 

Bertie tried to pull himself together and look cheerful, which increased the uncomfortable sensations in Stilton’s chest. “Ah, Stilton.  I, er, frightfully sorry to have dragged you into this and all that.” He closed his eyes and rested his head against D’Arcy’s chest.

D’Arcy tried desperately to recall what Wally had shown him about being gentle, but his mind was a blank.  “Will you be able to rest if you lean on my shoulder, Wooster?”

“Perhaps if you lie down and I lie on top of you?”  D’Arcy opened his mouth to argue, but Bertie closed his eyes and moaned. Stilton helped his friend to the bed and then lay down on his back and helped Wooster climb on top of him.  Bertie wiggled around for a moment, settling his head on D’Arcy’s shoulder. He started to slip, and D’Arcy caught him and held him still. “Thank-you, old bean.”

“You’re welcome, old crumpet.”

A few hours later a shutter opened in the door. The face of a bitter, gloating old man showed at the opening.  “Filthy inverts,” he muttered. Stilton tried not to shudder lest he wake Bertie.  For his part, Bertie wept silently so as not to disturb Stilton.

 

**Jeeves**

We found the door in the Underground, behind a disused portion of the Chancery Lane station.  It was locked with an alphabetic combination. The Director fidgeted impatiently.  “It’s a 15-letter combination and the key has been burned up because of Wooster’s idiotic sensitivities.  We are doomed.”

“This is no time for complaints, Director,” Wally said mildly.  “Let’s let Col Jeeves and M. Georges see what they can do for us.”  Wally took the Director firmly by the arm and moved a little distance away.  “You may be more comfortable sitting on this bench until you feel better.”

Georges looked at me very seriously. “I think you know what he said about you, Reginald.  What words he used again and again.”

Of course I knew what he had said.  The words had been seared into my brain, so often had he used them. And he had written them, again and again and again.  Kind, dear Mr. Wooster had burned them to spare me the shame of anyone else knowing. Cringing with mortification, I spelled out ‘magnificent hung.’  The lock clicked open and inside we found a small closet-like room filled with objects that would have been popular during the last century. The walls were filled with tattered photographs.  Most were of a pair of young men in various garbs, a few were pictures of one of them in uniform, perhaps from the first Boer War.  And there was a wedding portrait of one, and a family group with a young child. 

“What is this?” I asked Georges.

“It is the place he keeps his heart, Reginald. And you, Reginald, now have control over it.  Not the Director.” Georges carefully looked in the drawers, then slid a box from under the bottom of a shelf. He looked at the lock and then wedged it open with a screwdriver. “You see?  His letters are here.  The letters from the one he loved and lost. We will take them and use them to get Mr. Wooster back for you.”

I finally asked the question I should have asked when I was a young man. “Why are you doing this? Why are you helping me?”

“He killed my brother, a young man at the time.  He killed my heart that day. My brother was very like you, and when I met you, I found my heart was not all dead.”

“Georges, I am deeply sorry for your loss. I wish I had known.”

Georges smiled and cupped my face in a hand. “You have always been a very good young man, Reginald. Let us go back and find your heart now.”

 

**Bertie**

In mystery novels, the scenes of captivity always had a certain appeal to me.  There was a thingummy of excitement about them, the suspense of when the protago-whatsit would be rescued and, er, well whatchamacallit. I had had some proud thoughts of my own days in durance vile aboard the Stoker yacht, but in point of fact, that situation, while rather desperate in certain terms, was still not terribly uncomfortable. In actuality, brutal captivity is dashed unpleasant, even worse than being on the wrong side of my Aunt Agatha in a temper, which in the past was enough to keep Wooster an ocean’s reach away from the aged relative. My situation in the clutches of the rough blighters who had snatched me and Stilton was blasted bally awful.  Some unpleasant-looking cove punched me, drawing blood from the lower lip, and when I, quite naturally, complained that they had stained my good jacket, they ripped off my clothes and commenced to pummeling the willowy form quite mercilessly. It was all in terribly bad form, and it was all I could do to maintain an appearance of sangfroid.

They tossed the w.f. unceremoniously into durance vile, and it was rather a relief to find that the huge beefy cove snoring loudly on the rough bed was in fact Stilton Cheesewright. Certainly not always the dearest cove to the Wooster heart, but a decent enough bloke nevertheless as it happens.  He did his best to be gentle with the array of bruises blooming about the slender limbs, and kindly wrapped me in his jacket.  I have no idea how long we were bunged up there, but the rough chaps came back for me, and Stilton took rather a bad thumping before I convinced him to desist in his attempts to protect me.  They were certainly not gentle with Wooster, and they smashed the locket Jeeves had given me, and said any number of unpleasant things.  Bally poor form. Fortunately nothing vital seemed broken or burst, and they dumped me back in with Stilton, who kindly let me use him as a rather lumpy mattress.

“Sorry for bleeding on you, old bean.”

“It’s no matter, old crumpet.”

I understood from the absence of the word “ass” in his address that Stilton was feeling less boomps-a-daisy than usual.

“I would feel much better if you could see your way to calling me an ass, Stilton.”

He chuckled, and I suppressed an ‘oof’ of pain. “Perhaps after you get some rest, Wooster.”

“Did you have a chance to apply any lavishing, Stilton?”

“What the deuce are you blathering about Wooster?”

“You asked me on the train about lavishing affections, Stilton.”

“Ah, no, Wooster. I felt like such a bally oaf. I feel an bally oaf now, in fact. I know I’m hurting you.  It’s good of you not to complain, by the way.”

“One wants to be civil, Cheesewright.”

“You don’t normally pry, Wooster.”

“Ah, but you asked for my help.  A Wooster sees the job through. Why do you feel an oaf, Stilton?”

“I am a huge, brawny oaf, Wooster, which is all very well for police work and defending damsels and whatnot, but in the arena of affections…”

“Not a good image, Stilton.”

“What?”

“Arena.  Affections are not combat…well, not generally, and er, ah, although, well, whatsit. Enough about that for now. Er, whatsit.”

“You are an ass, Wooster.”

“Thank-you Cheesewright. But as far as affections go, you seek a safe harbor, a shelter, a warmth.”

“Sounds like coddling.”

“Precisely, Stilton.” Wooster felt immoderately pleased. “Exactly.  You should want to coddle the object of your affection, like a precious darling lamb.”

Stilton snorted and Wooster suppressed another oof. “Ah, like you… you coddled creature. No wonder Wally said you were soppy.”

“I am most certainly not soppy,” I became as indignant as it was possible to be while clasped in a person’s friendly embrace. “Although, compared to you…”

“Precisely. So if I have a precious lamb, then I coddle it and the affections become lavished thereupon and whatnot?”

“Stilton, I am impressed.  You have mastered the thing, I believe.”

“Good. Now go to sleep so I can call you an ass again when you wake up.”

“Right ho, Stilton.”

**Greystone**

Jeeves and Wally paced the floor, looking both grim and impatient.  “We must wait for Mycroft,” said the Director again in a patient voice.  “We must wait until he acts.”

Jeeves paused and exchanged a look with Georges.  “I believe not, Director.  Mycroft is notorious for being unable to know when to act.  You will come with us now.”

The Director felt the grip of a terrible alarm. He could not act against the MI20.  It was wrong.  Mycroft would help him. “No, no, we must wait.”

“He is still in the grip,” said Georges calmly.

The Director shook his head and laughed. “Don’t be daft, man.  I remember everything now,” said the Director.  “Everything. I certainly do want to end this, but we do have to wait.  It’s required.”  He looked uncertainly at the grim faces of the two young men in front of him, then appealingly at Georges.  “Please tell me there is not more?”

“There is always more, Director,” said Georges, still in the calm voice. “We can meet him on the way.  You will come with us now.”

“You will come with us now. There is no hurry. We can meet Mycroft on the way,” said Jeeves. 

“We can meet Mycroft on the way,” said the Director and followed them obediently out the door.

 

**Jeeves**

I was frantic.  Mr. Wooster and Mr. Cheesewright had been in the clutches of the MI20 for a day and a half.  We had very little time and the Director had spent nearly twenty-four hours waiting for Mycroft. I was unable to wait any longer.   Georges took me aside to try and calm me.  “You are wearing the emotionless face, Reginald, but I can see that you are very upset.”

I spoke in the icy tone of absolute despair. “I cannot bear the thought of what they will do to him. Are doing to him. He trusted me to rescue him and I will not disappoint him. I must find him. I imagine Mr. Fortescue feels similarly. Where do you imagine Mycroft is at this moment?  Where has he been for the last day?”

Georges considered this for several minutes.  “He is likely in his office, reading as he normally does.  The Director has remembered before, Reginald, and he was tortured very badly the last time he acted without Mycroft as a support.”

“We must go to him then, and we must find them.”

“Yes.”  I looked up to see that Wally had joined our conversation. “Now. Before they start…” He could not speak the words, but my insides shuddered at the thought of the tortures I had read about.

Georges nodded grimly and helped me convince the Director to accompany us.  It was surprisingly easy to find the entrance.  Three guards stood in the alleyway, and Wally and I were both rather bruised and battered by the time we had fought our way through them.  No one came to help them, which seemed unaccountable. As we neared the entrance, Mycroft opened the door for us.

“Finally.  I have been waiting for you, Cyril,” he said reproachfully. “You must come now, they’ve taken them in.  The big one has knocked out three of the guards.”  He looked at the alleyway. “Good, that leaves just the one, but he’s starting the machine.” A dreadful shriek sounded in the corridor, breaking my heart and tearing my soul. “Oh dear god, not that poor, kind boy,” gasped Mycroft.

“Sir!” I shouted. The blood winked out of Wally’s face and we both ran toward the sound, careless of surrounding objects, leaving the rest behind us in our great haste.  We felled the few personnel we saw along the way. We reached a door stained with human blood, and forced it open through adrenaline and sheer strength of will. Wally and I slammed the door shut before anyone else could enter. 

Mr. Wooster, covered in bruises and wounds, had somehow freed an arm from his bonds and wrenched the wires from the machine.  He had also, apparently, planted a knife in the MI20’s shoulder from across the room. Mr. Cheesewright also bore the marks of ill-use and was in the process of knocking the assistant unconscious with the remains of the chair he had been tied to, undoubtedly to witness Mr. Wooster being tortured. A guard lay slumped on the floor, a knife in his arm and a chair leg on his head.  I hurried to Mr. Wooster, while Wally prevented Mr. Cheesewright from killing the MI20 with a chair leg.

“No, D’Arcy.  The Director must do it.”

Mr. Wooster, who was wearing only Mr. Cheesewright’s jacket and his torn underthings, desperately tried to cover himself.  Reflexively, I pulled the jacket closed around him. At first I thought he was embarrassed at being so exposed in front of Wally and Mr. Cheesewright. “Please don’t look at me like this, Jeeves,” he gasped.  He was so battered and bruised that I was afraid to touch him, but I rubbed the place between his brows with my thumb before removing his legs from the restraints. He cried out as he removed the electrodes from himself.

“I brought your black trousers, sir.”  I felt an idiot, but I could not fold him in my arms and comfort him in that place.

“Are you all right, then, Jeeves?”  Mr. Wooster touched a blooming bruise on my temple.

“Yes, of course, sir.”

Wally removed his sweater, and I pulled a pair of close-fitting trousers from beneath my clothing.

“Don’t worry, sir.” I said.  He gasped in pain when the fabric touched his wounds.  “Would you prefer not?  The sweater will cover you adequately.”

“I’ll not go out without trousers, Jeeves, although that poncho would have been bally handy just about now, I must say.”

“Wooster, you are an ass.”

“Thank-you Cheesewright.”

In the excitement, the MI20 had begun to crawl toward the bell, probably to summon help.  The door flew open and the Director entered, Mycroft behind him.  They motioned us to leave and we needed no further prompting. Wally and I hurried Mr. Wooster and Mr. Cheesewright out the door.  Georges was waiting for us outside amid the trussed bodies of the guards. 

“I have a cab for you, back to Mr. Wooster’s flat. Dr. Glossop is waiting for you.” The heart sunk in my chest. I had hoped that we would have more privacy.

“No, old bean,” said Stilton.  “My uncle will be frantic with worry.  Wally and I had better be dropped there.”

I helped Mr. Wooster into the cab and waited for Georges to join us.  “No, my friend.  You do not need me now.  I must go.”  He handed Mr. Wooster a timbale pan.  “For the chef. He will understand.”


	8. Just before dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sir Roderick Glossop sees to matters Stilton-related. The evil blighter is attended to. Sir Roderick sees to Jeeves and Bertie. Precious darling lambs are discussed. Laughter and tears.

**Stilton**

The friends limped toward D’Arcy’s uncle’s house in silence. “Do we have to, D’Arcy?” asked Wally.  “I haven’t even met your uncle and we look like we have been brawling.”

“He’ll be worried.  We can hie to France or somesuch place tomorrow or the next day, Wally.”

D’Arcy’s uncle proved to be more amenable to their appearance, and their leaving, than either expected. “I thought the MI6 would be a softer assignment—learning French and reading foreign newspapers, keep you out of trouble.” He sighed.  “You’d better get cleaned up quickly and I’ll have Stanley drive you back to your flat, son.  I’m having a dinner party and don’t want you frightening anyone.  I’ll have them pack you some groceries and your supper.  From the looks of you two, you’d better spend a day or two sleeping it off.”

The house was full of guests, so they used D’Arcy’s room to clean up. Wally was horrified when he peeled D’Arcy’s shirt off.  “What did they do to you?”

“They were beating Wooster.  He’s so small, Wally, I couldn’t just let them use him like that.”

Wally’s eyes filled.  “Defending the weak. Bally endearing, D’Arcy.”

“Not so weak. Did you see him in there? I’m glad he thought to have me carry his extra set of knives.  He had one in the guard and another in the MI20 just as they turned on that infernal machine. Gods, the sound that came out of him will haunt me forever.”

Wally shuddered.  “We heard it.”

“I don’t know where I got the strength, but suddenly the chair was in bits, the assistant was down and you were there.”

“I’m so glad we got to you in time.”

D’Arcy shuddered.  “I tried to save him, Wally.”

“It looks to me as if you succeeded. I’m bally proud of you D’Arcy.”

 They reached D’Arcy’s flat to find Sir Roderick Glossop waiting for them. “Good,” he said warmly.  “You lads look reasonably fine.  I was quite worried after I saw what they’d done to poor Wooster.”  His eyes strayed to D’Arcy, who was holding his side, and to Wally, who kept a hand at his friend’s elbow.  “You first, then, young man.”

D’Arcy’s housekeeper and valet were on an extended holiday, having recently married, which left D’Arcy and Wally alone in the house. Wally, wearing D’Arcy’s dressing gown, brought their dinner to the bedroom, where D’Arcy was sitting up in bed in his pajamas, favoring his cracked rib. He set D’Arcy up with a tray and sat in a chair by the bedside.

“Do you need to go home, Wally?”

“No, D’Arcy.  I phoned my parents and they are happy to have me out of their hair for the nonce.”

“So you don’t need to go home to be coddled like a precious darling lamb?”

Wally blinked several times more than were necessary, then put a hand to his friend’s forehead. “D’Arcy, how many blows to the head have they struck you?”

“Fewer than they struck Wooster.”

“What’s this precious darling lamb business?”

D’Arcy paused and looked away. “I, er, asked Wooster for advice about being more affectionate to you.”

“While you were imprisoned being beaten and tortured?”

“Before that, at first, but it was preying on my mind somewhat and he did ask.”

“While you were imprisoned being beaten and tortured? Wooster inquired about our private affections?” Wally suppressed a smile. “And what did he tell you?”

“He said something about coddling a precious darling lamb and that it would be lavished with affection.” Wally chuckled.

“I told you he was soppy, D’Arcy.”

“I realize it’s all very untoward, Wally, but would you consider?”  Wally smiled.

“It’s not untoward at all, D’Arcy.  That Glossop told me to stay with you in case your sleep was disturbed. Let’s finish eating.”

“I’m not hungry.” Wally bolted down his dinner and brought the plates back to the kitchen.  He shed the dressing gown and climbed into the bed beside his friend. “You’re not wearing anything, Wally.”

“So, not too many blows to the head, then, D’Arcy. Let’s get you out of these pajamas and I will coddle you like a precious darling lamb.”

“I er.”

“I realize you are battered, but I need to feel your skin on me just now. That’s all.  If that’s all right?”

“I am afraid, that, er.” D’Arcy buried his face in his hands to hide his tears.  He shook, and Wally rubbed the back of his head until he calmed himself.

“Don’t worry about that, D’Arcy.  I won’t mention it to anyone.  There is a code after all.”

“Just my shirt, then.”

“Whatever you like, lamb.”

“I believe you mean ‘precious darling lamb.’”

“As you… no, in fact, I cannot bring myself to say that again with a straight face.”

“Thank-you.”  They burst out laughing together. Wally unbuttoned D’Arcy’s pajama shirt and gently eased it from his body, touching his skin far more than was strictly necessary and rubbing the back of his head.

“I’m so glad you’re not more badly hurt.”

“I’m terribly shaken, Wally.” D’Arcy’s voice wobbled and he rested his head on Wally’s shoulder.

“Let’s lie down.  I haven’t slept since they took you.”

“Ah.”  They lay down together, and Wally pulled D’Arcy against him. “I’m going to make a bally fool of myself.” 

“The code will protect you.”

“Good.”

 

**Greystone**

The Director saw the MI20 writhing on the floor in a pool of his own blood and he remembered. “You hurt me.  Again and again. You used me to mask this.  I did this because you hurt me and made me forget.”

The MI20 jeered from the pool of blood. “Filthy invert.  You can never hurt me.”

A calm gripped the Director.  He pulled a packet of letters from his pocket and began to read them aloud.  The MI20 gasped.

“Where did you get those? No one had the key.”

“The Wolf had the key.  You gave it to him when you thought you had killed him, and he gave it to one of us.  Mycroft, please stop the MI20 bleeding.  We will be reading all of his letters aloud before we proceed.” The MI20 wept and begged them to stop, but the Director read the words of love that had been passed between two very young men, and then the betrayal when one had married. “You ripped first, didn’t you?  You wanted to blame her, and then you decided to punish him.”

Mycroft stood, his face like stone as the Director read each letter and let it fall into the pool of blood. “I remember something else now, you see.  I remember that I have to be the one to end you because otherwise, nothing will stop.  Once I kill you, I will remember all the ones you set loose and I will be able to find them and stop them, too.”

“No,” whispered the MI20, licking his lips. “Please.  Have mercy.”

“I will. I will have some mercy,” said the Director. He took the knife that Mycroft had pulled from the MI20’s shoulder. It was one of the knives that Jeeves had given to Bertie for his birthday and Stilton had smuggled into the lining of his jacket. The Director used it to slice the MI20’s throat. Then he held the old man’s hand while he breathed his last bubbling breath.

“Is that done then?” The Director asked Mycroft. “Can we release those young men?”

“They would be safer if you retained them as special agents. There is another war coming, you know. We will need them.”

“I was unaware. Can you arrange to give this man a decent burial and have a purple beret sent to Wooster’s flat? And his things if you can find them?”

“It would be my pleasure. Shall I attend to disbanding the workers?”

The Director considered this. “No, Mycroft. I believe they have been pulled from MI5? They should be attended to there. I think I’ll go into the office. I have a lot of remembering to do.”

 

**Jeeves**

We rode home, Mr. Wooster laying alone on one side of the cab as we were in London.  I helped him out and supported him through the doors to Berkeley Mansions.  Mr. Jarvis looked his concern, but responded to Mr. Wooster’s kind and cheerful greeting as though all was well.  Inside the building, Sir Roderick Glossop gasped when he saw us. “My dear young fellow, what happened? And Jeeves?”

Mr. Wooster started and clung to me, but endeavored to act cheerful as I unlocked the door. “What ho!  It’s all quite all right, Sir Roderick.  Nothing a good kip and some salve can’t fix.  Jeeves will have me set to rights straightaway.”

In the sitting room, Sir Roderick approached us cautiously, but backed away when Mr. Wooster began to appear upset. “Perhaps you can run him a bath and settle him into the bed where he will be more comfortable.  I’ll fix us some tea, if you do not mind.” I opened my mouth to explain that we had not been home in some days, but he interrupted. “I took the liberty of ordering in a few things.” Sir Roderick was attached to the MI6 in a medical capacity, and was familiar with the needs of spies in most situations.  He waited patiently in the living room while I brought Mr. Wooster into the bathroom and began to fill the tub.

“Can you hold onto me, sir?” Mr. Wooster clung to my shoulder, hissing in pain as I removed his clothes to settle him into a tepid bath. His body was a mass of bruises, and he kept his hands in front of what he called his ‘private bits.’

“Please, can I look first?” I draped him with a towel and helped him ease into the water.  “Thank-you Jeeves. I don’t know what they did to me…” He bowed his head.  I knelt on the floor by the tub so he could rest his forehead on my shoulder.

“Shh, it will all be well, sir,” I soothed him, cupping the back of his head in my hand.  The sound of a cleared throat caught our attention. Mr. Wooster hurriedly collected himself and waved cheerfully. I turned to face our guest. Sir Roderick was hovering in the bedroom, where he had had a view of our embrace. His face was a study in well-meaning, and highly embarrassed, concern as he moved forward.

Mr. Wooster became nearly frantic. “No, Jeeves. No, please,” he hissed in a whisper. “Don’t let him see my private bits, please.”

“Of course not, sir.” I rested a hand on his shoulder. Mr. Wooster calmed almost instantly at my touch. “I’ll go see to Sir Roderick, sir.  Will you be all right here alone?”

“Yes, thank-you, Jeeves.”

I showed Sir Roderick back out to the sitting room so Mr. Wooster would not be upset by our conversation. “Sir Roderick, Mr. Wooster is feeling extremely distressed after his ordeal.”

“I apologize, Jeeves.  I merely wanted to ask where you kept the tea.”

Naturally, I suspected that he followed me to see what Mr. Wooster’s genuine state of mind was, but I let the comment pass.  “Allow me, Sir Roderick.” I saw that he had received a sack of groceries, which I carried into the kitchen.  I quickly washed myself and put on clean clothes while the water boiled. When I returned to the sitting room with the tea, Sir Roderick was in one of the armchairs, holding his head in both hands.

“This is all my doing, Jeeves,” he said in a pained voice.

“Sir?” I did not understand him. “I do not understand you, Sir Roderick. Mr. Wooster sustained these injuries in the course of duty.”

Sir Roderick wrung his hands. “I understood that he had somehow gotten mixed up in that business, but I see that something more has happened. I advised you to stay with him when he was ill, and now it seems to have brought on some sort of crisis. Do you think he would consent to an examination of his injuries? I don’t wish to distress him any further by sending him to a hospital.”

“If you do not require anything else, I will consult with him directly.”  I went back to the bath, where Mr. Wooster was drowsing in the cooling water.  This time I locked the door. I could have wept to see the damage to his beautiful body. “Sir?” He opened his eyes and smiled at me, much like his cheerful self, although his lip was swollen and one of his eyes was going black.

“I am so glad to see you, Jeeves.  Would you help me? My hands are burned.”

“Of course.” He hissed in pain a few times, but lay quietly for the most part as I gently cleaned his limbs and body. Then I washed his hair before I motioned toward the area he had covered. “Would you permit me?”

“Yes, of course.”

I was confused.  “A few minutes ago, sir…”

Mr. Wooster looked highly embarrassed. “I feel a bit of a fool, but I needed to make sure that everything was still there, Jeeves.  I wasn’t entirely sure. It was that bally painful, but everything seems to be present and accounted for.” I dressed him in some undershorts and tucked him into his bed and had him drink some tea.  He winced when the cup touched his split lip.

“Sir Roderick would like to examine your hurts, sir.  Would you permit this?”

Mr. Wooster’s face worked for a moment. “Will you stay with me?  And keep him from looking at…”

“Of course, sir.”  I showed Sir Roderick in.

“Is it all right if Jeeves stays, Sir Roderick?” Mr. Wooster asked in an almost plaintive tone.

“Of course, son,” said Sir Roderick, his face and voice softer than I had ever seen them. “Will you be uncomfortable, Jeeves?”

I drew myself up.  “Indeed not, sir.  It is my duty to look after Mr. Wooster.” Sir Roderick instructed me to sit on the bed and hold Mr. Wooster’s hand, but that pained him, so I kept a hand on his shoulder.  Sir Roderick was very gentle, but he still caused Mr. Wooster some pain as he probed the bruises, looking for any signs of internal damage.  Mr. Wooster did not cry out or complain, but he curled up and rested his head on my thigh.  Tears oozed from his eyes when Sir Roderick probed his broken ribs and handled the fingers he’d broken wrenching free of the restraints and the toes that one of the guards had stamped on. Sir Roderick taped the broken ribs and digits and then produced a number of salves and some morphine from his bag and instructed both of us in their application and use. He looked at Mr. Wooster’s burned hands.

“Mr. Wooster, I would like to examine the other areas where they burned you.”

Mr. Wooster thrashed almost wildly for an instant then covered himself with the sheet.  “No! I er, ah, that is… not to be impolite, of course, Sir Roderick.  I am of course aware you are trying to help. Most grateful and all that. Ah, whatsit. But, er, I, ah.” He looked about as if seeking a route of escape.

Sir Roderick looked at him with compassionate concern. “Of course, I do not wish to embarrass you, Mr. Wooster. Would you allow Jeeves to look at those areas and tell me how severe the injuries are?”

Mr. Wooster blushed and hung his head, but he agreed and Sir Roderick left the room.  I locked the door and gingerly removed Mr. Wooster’s undershorts.  He lay back and allowed me to gently examine him, closing his eyes against the pain. I was horrified at the pattern of welts caused by the electrodes, but his skin was mercifully intact. I stood to stroke Mr. Wooster’s forehead.  He opened his eyes, which filled with tears. “Please be patient, love. I will see Sir Roderick and hopefully he will leave.”

“Will you stay with me tonight?” he whispered, the tears trickling down his face.

I wiped his battered face and he closed his eyes.  I would have liked to have kissed him and stroked his hair, but I was unsure I could keep from breaking down. “As soon as we are alone. Will you be all right alone for a few moments?”

He nodded and I covered him with the sheet.

Sir Roderick listened to my descriptions with every appearance of great relief, and gave me a burn salve. I helped Mr. Wooster apply it to his burns.  Then I covered the ointment with gauze and settled him under the covers before returning to the sitting room. Sir Roderick had his head in his hands again.

“He should have no physical problems after the next few weeks, but I am concerned about another matter. He is very emotionally fragile and this seems to have resulted in a dependency on you. I do not like to be overly graphic, of course, but the treatment for this sort of thing is, as you know, as much of the forbidden pleasure as the patient wants.  He seems very willing to trust you, but of course, it is terribly awkward. I hate to ask this of you Jeeves. Would you possibly consider helping him?”

I drew up to hide my immediate amusement at his extreme anxiety. “Sir Roderick, my duty is to look after Mr. Wooster. Of course I will see to him, so long as it does not endanger him or myself.”

Sir Roderick almost collapsed in relief. “That is very good of you, Jeeves.  Very good of you, indeed.  If it is not too much to ask, you should stay in the bedroom with him until he feels comfortable on his own. In his current state, I am afraid he might be too upset to ring if he needs you. I know it is a great deal to ask, a huge infringement on your privacy. I will of course write you orders.  However, I would recommend that you spend some months abroad as soon as he can travel.  It would be easier, I believe. Now, I don’t like the look of that bruise on your temple.  I’d like to have a look at you, if you don’t mind.  Given the circumstances, it would be better if you allowed Mr. Wooster to witness this, I believe, for his sake, to assure him that you are not badly harmed. Again, I apologize for the awkwardness.”

I complied, and after propping his up with pillows, allowed Mr. Wooster to hold my hand while Sir Roderick satisfied himself, and Mr. Wooster, that my bruises and cuts were not serious.  Mr. Wooster, knowing my sensitivities, refused to allow me to bare my chest, and insisted that I keep covered as much as possible. Sir Roderick regarded Mr. Wooster with a strong appearance of approval.

“I’ll inform the MI6 that both of you should be on medical leave for the next year or so, as I cannot recommend that you be separated. I took the liberty of ordering a dinner for you. Jarvis will be bringing it in." He seemed about to explain something else, but caught sight of his watch.  "I must see to that young Mr. Cheesewright.”  Mercifully, he left us alone.

 

**Bertie**

Even with all the time that has passed, the willowy frame shudders violently when I think of the last day in that terrible place.  If it had not been for Stilton, I do not see how I would have still been whole and sane enough for Jeeves to rescue. Cheesewright fought like a lion to protect me and bought us the precious time we needed for Jeeves and Wally to free us before anything got too out of hand. He also reminded me about the knives and distracted the guards so they were not paying me much mind once they—it does not bear writing of. No one else is quite sure how I managed to slip from my bonds and flip that knife at the MI20, but it was a bally bad shot. I’d been going for his throat—he was saying such vile things about Jeeves—but it turns out that missing was a happy accident.  Otherwise the Director would not have been able to track down the small band of MI20 followers and end their misdeeds, which absolutely curl the intestines to learn about.

Our first night back in the flat was deuced difficult. Once Sir Roderick had oozed from the premises and our dinner had been delivered, Jeeves settled us into the bed with my breakfast tray. I was shaking like a reed, so he cut up my food and fed me bits with his fingers. I didn’t want very much, but we drank some soup. I was half out of my skull with the pain, but I refused the morphine because I was terrified at the thought of what I might dream. Jeeves was pretending to be hale and hearty, but I could see that he had suffered some firm blows to the frame and was feeling quite uncomfortable himself.  He bunged us up a selection of aspirins and made a bag of ice for the throbbing Wooster bean. I wouldn’t let him dim the lights.

He touched me gently on the not as badly wounded areas, and stroked my hair, which soothed the frayed nerves, but what I really wanted was to be held. I knew Jeeves would not hurt me unmeaningly like Stilton had. I was afraid to ask, though, because I knew that I’d start crying as soon as he bunged the arms around me and I didn’t want to upset him. Also, the kind stance Sir Roderick Glossop took had me thinking that I had entered the ranks of his loonies and I wanted to appear as sane as possible.

“Love?”

“Yes, Reg?”

“I’d like to hold you. Would that be all right?”

“Of course, Reg.  I just, I am afraid that,” the voice wobbled.

“Please don’t worry about appearing distressed, darling.” My throat closed as he took me tenderly in his arms and let me nestle against him like a precious darling lamb. “I love you, Bertie, so very dearly.” I couldn’t speak. He stroked my hair and I sobbed helplessly against him for quite some time. He soothed me as much as he could, until he started crying himself. We eventually cried ourselves to sleep.

 


	9. A brand new day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertie and Jeeves start a new chapter. Stilton learns more about lambs.

**Jeeves**

We were up most of the first night and spent the next two days sleeping, waking only when Mr. Wooster’s injuries pained him. We spent a great deal of time holding each other and weeping, which was a most needed release, but in the main, we slept. Early the following morning we received our bags and a package containing a violet beret, with the remains of the clothes and locket Mr. Wooster had been wearing when he was abducted. My grandfather’s watch chain was present, but twisted and broken beyond simple repair. I was in the process of deciding whether to hide the locket and watch chain, when Mr. Wooster limped unsteadily into the room, his dressing gown flapping open immodestly, calling for me, looking in dismay at his burned and bandaged hands.

“Ah, Jeeves,” he said, relief and happiness glowing from his battered face.

“How may I help you, sir?” He caught sight of the locket.

“Oh! They found it.  I was that upset about having to tell you, that they…” Mr. Wooster’s face worked in distress and I took him carefully in my arms and settled onto the chesterfield.  “They said such terrible things, Reg, mocked my private bits, and …” he began to weep brokenly.

“I am sorry darling, but you know that I think you are most beautiful.”

“Even my private bits?”  He snuffled against my dressing gown and I tousled his hair.

“Yes, love.  Although I might say especially your private bits.”

“Especially?” The hopeful tone in his voice melted my heart, and I tousled his hair again and kissed the top of his head.

“Yes, darling.”

“They hurt a great deal right now, Reg.”

“Shall I help you with the salve? Is that why you were calling for me?”

“Yes, please. My hands hurt and I can’t open the jars.”

“Would you still like to go back to the villa, love?”

“Yes, Reg.  I would like to.  When can we leave?”

“Sir Roderick told me to take you away as soon as you were well enough to travel.”

“I’ll even take the morphine if that helps.”  He paused.  “It seems deuced silly to keep this flat when we don’t use it.”

“We do have need of it.  We lived here for most of the past year.”

“But we can’t really….”

“Ah, Sir Roderick wrote us a prescription.”

Mr. Wooster started and nearly fell from the chesterfield. “What?!  A prescription?”

“He became highly concerned when he saw you weeping into my shoulder.  He blames himself for encouraging you to keep me with you in times of stress. The only treatment he can offer is as much of the forbidden pleasure as possible.”

“The forbidden pleasure being you?”

“So it would seem.”

“Would you help me with the salve now?”

“Of course, love.”

“And would you sing me ‘forty-seven ginger-headed sailors’ until I fall asleep?” The question seemed innocent enough, but I could see the concern behind his eyes. He knew me well enough to know that I would only consent to such a thing if I feared he was dying or insane.

I spoke lightly. “Likely not, love, but I will hold you if you like and rub your forehead.”

“You won’t even hum it?”

His darling face puckered with worry. “I am afraid not, love. But, I think, perhaps that I’d like to hold you for my own sake just now, if you would be so kind as to permit it.”

We retired to the bedroom and I smoothed Mr. Wooster’s burns and bruises with salve and then gathered him into my arms.  He nestled as closely against me as he could before drifting to sleep. As upset and battered as we both were, I knew that the problems I had brought to our household had been greatly diminished.  We no longer had to hide from the MI20 and our relations were now considered medically necessary. I moved to get up and Mr. Wooster stirred.

“…coming home across the briny sea…” he sang blearily, before nestling down among the pillows and drifting back to sleep, a gentle smile on his puffy lips.  My eyes brimmed with grateful tears that he was whole and safe with me, and before I rose to begin a few days of arranging for repairs for our clothing, and making travel arrangements in proper style, I leaned down to breathe in his musky smell and kiss the top of his beloved head. 

In the sitting room, I surveyed the devastated remains of the tokens of love I had given Mr. Wooster, and fingered the chain and ring around my own neck.  I took up the telephone and called a jeweler. When Mr. Wooster awoke a few hours later, he was wearing a chain and ring much like my own.  I entered the room with his cup of tea and found him fingering the jewelry in some confusion.

“Reg?” I went to the bed to see if he was in pain, and he reached up toward my neck.  Realizing what was troubling him, I bent down and unbuttoned my shirt to let him see the ring still hanging around my neck. I ran my hand through his hair.

“I wanted you to have something to wear until I can replace your locket.”

I was wholly unprepared for his reaction. He looked up at me, his battered face glowing.  “For me? Oh, Reg,” he breathed, as though he could not quite believe his great good fortune. “It’s just like yours.” He gathered himself with some difficulty, then looked up at me with shining eyes, “…a wedding ring...” His eyes filled with tears. I sat beside him on the bed, nearly overcome with feelings of love and tenderness for him, and he rested against me. “Oh, thank-you, Reg. It’s so beautiful. Thank-you.”

I gently stroked his hair, unable to believe my great good fortune in attaching him and feeling no little shame at not perceiving how much he would have appreciated this simple gesture.

“You are most welcome, darling.  I am only sorry I did not do this for you sooner.  I wish I had better understood your feelings.”

“No, Reg, it’s just… perfect. Thank-you.” He paused, and his face wrinkled with concern as he looked up and touched the blossoming bruise at my temple. 

I leaned down and kissed him, and the world suddenly righted itself.

 

TWO MONTHS LATER

**Italian countryside**

**Bertie**

Jeeves and I wafted off for a proper honeymoon this time.  No spies, no Stilton Cheesewright, no aunts, just a full month on our own in the villa. We ankled in battered and bruised, but glowing with the satisfaction that we had served our country and ridded the world of a major, and bally evil, nuisance.  The time passed much as it had before, although the Jeevesian ‘fishing’ had less of brooding quality than previously. In time, we bought the place, rather cheaply as it was falling down in several places. 

There were a few differences. A much larger array of unguents and silk underthings accompanied us thither, which would have been cheerier if my injuries had not necessitated, if that is the word I want, their purchase.  Not that I didn’t enjoy them—if Jeeves had not insisted that we dress for dinner once or twice, I might have forgotten what it felt like to wear clothes at all. Jeeves insisted that we sell the Paris flat, so while he made arrangements, I spent a week huddled with Morpheus in a hotel under the watchful eye of my uncle’s old valet, Brooks. He was bally understanding and kindly told me about his own bad experience at Colney Hatch. He even offered to show me that he had healed as good as new after much worse usage, but Wooster draws the line at looking at his uncle’s valet’s private bits.    

Before we left for Italy, Jeeves surprised me with the silks. Since Bertram was not able to go to the store, he even bought a couple of fruity items, but most of what he purchased for me was in the softer shades of pink he liked me to wear when we exchanged our most intimate affections. We’d not engaged in, er, whatnot for at least a week by the time we had arrived in Paris, and I was touched by, but a bit nervous about, his choices.

Once at the villa, we curled up with Morpheus in a small chamber off the larger bedroom. A bed and two small tables filled it to the gills. And it had no windows.  If one of us was having a difficult time sleeping, we could burn the light all night without it shining across the lake. 

Neither of us said anything about it, but it took some time before we ventured into very much, er, whatnot, together. The first few days were hard for me because I had not really been well enough to travel, but I had insisted we leave London. Jeeves spent a great deal of time massaging me with oils and salves to prevent the tender corpus from scarring.  I returned the favor as much as he would permit but he was keeping himself covered more and we didn’t become eagerly aroused as we had been used to do.  By the end of our first week at the villa, Wooster was bally concerned. I was still green and pink and purple about the face and corpus, but the chappies and, er, other bits, were only slightly more tender than usual. 

We were in bed, lying curled up together reading.  Jeeves had _Five types of ethical theory_ because he was in the mood for something light, and I was working through a real doozie by Rosie M. Banks in which a poor beazel with clear and fearless eyes tossed her curls proudly in the face of a high-born lover. The still-multicolored willowy form was bedecked in beautifully soft, petal pink silk undershorts and the sturdier Jeevesian frame sported a subtle deep green paisley pajama bottom, leaving his delicious chest, with its fading bruises and pattern of interesting scars, bare.

“Reg?”  He squeezed the w. form gently and kissed the top of the Wooster head fondly.

“Are you sleepy, love?”

“No, Reg.  Reg?” He set down his book to give me his attention.

“Yes, love?”

“Do you think we could be more, er, ah…” I blushed and looked down at my book.

“Whatnot, love?”  I lifted the peepers Jeeves-ward and nearly melted in the affection and passion in his gaze. “Oh, darling, I am so happy you asked.”

“Really?  I was afraid you didn’t want…”

The w.f. was pressed against the Jeevesian chest and lavished with tender affection. “No, love. I was simply afraid of rushing you.  I thought you were still in some pain.”

It’s blasted awful that the work of only a few moments could damage a fellow’s bits so much that it would take weeks to recover, but so it was. “I don’t feel very much pain, but I am nervous.”

“That’s most understandable. What would you like love?”

“Could we commence investigations into the whatsit?”

“Of course…would you like to start by examining our credentials?”

“Oh, yes, please.” The Jeevesian credentials were always well worth examining and I had not seen them in some time to really speak to.

“May I have the pleasure?”

“Only if you remove that paisley, Reg.  It’s a bit unsettling to the tender nerves.”

“Would you be so kind?  I seem to be experiencing some straining around my buttons.”

I shucked him out as he asked. “Oh, Reg.  I almost forgot how beautiful your personal bits are.”  He flushed, but he was glowing.  “May I nuzzle you in the area indicated?”

“Of course, darling.”

We had a bally good time.

 

**Stilton**

D’Arcy Cheesewright’s first visit to Wooster and Jeeves’s villa proved enlightening in the arena of affections.  He and Wally had fallen into a rather rough and tumble mode of relating, but Wally seemed inclined for something more affectionate.  D’Arcy cringed every time he tried, and they almost despaired of ever finding their way, masking their discomfort with jokes and roughhousing.

About a week after they arrived, Wally and D’Arcy returned from a walk to find Jeeves and Wooster curled up reading on a chaise. Bertie yawned and stretched, and turned toward Jeeves, resting his head against the larger man’s chest and putting an arm about his waist. The look of loving affection on Jeeves’s face stilled D’Arcy and Wally. Jeeves set down his book and cuddled Bertie close against him, stroking his hair and kissing the top of his head, then rubbing his back and murmuring to him gently. Wally pulled D’Arcy out of the doorway and took his hand.

“That was rather,” said D’Arcy when they were safely in their room.

“Yes, rather.”

“They didn’t actually seem terribly soppy.”

“No, not at all, D’Arcy. I was deeply moved, in fact.”

“I understand what Wooster meant about the precious lamb now.  It seems much less ridiculous.”  Their eyes met.  “How would you like to have a go at that, then?”

“I really rather would, thank-you for suggesting it.”

“Who will lavish and who will lamb?”

“I think we should take it in turns.”

“Bally good.”

Downstairs, Jeeves buried his face in Bertie’s hair.  “Are you embarrassed at all, love?”

“I bally well am, Reg, but Stilton was in need and I cannot tell you how much I owe him.  He saved me in that dreadful, dreadful place. Do you think it worked?”

Jeeves rubbed Bertie’s back. “It appears most promising. Their mouths dropped open and they walked away hand in hand. Is there anything I can do to ease your discomfort?”

“Nothing more than you are already doing, Reg. I am so grateful just to be able to touch you.”

Jeeves’s hand stilled. “Perhaps we should retire to our room.”

“Reg?”

“I feel a sudden melting sensation and I would like to lavish you with affection.”

Bertie hopped up eagerly, knocking their books to the floor while Jeeves unfolded himself in a fluid motion and extinguished the lamp.  They joined hands and went upstairs.

**Jeeves**

Mr. Wooster and I each made a full recovery in the first month we spent in Italy, a recovery that we marked by having rough and tumble relations in all the rooms of the house with walls as well as a few delicious encounters in the lake after dark wearing nothing but our rings.  I will never forget how beautiful his naked form looked in the moonlight or the feel of his warm flesh in the cool water of the lake.

We marked the end of our honeymoon with a visit from Mr. Cheesewright and Wally Fortescue, who had developed an amicable relationship that appeared founded on deep mutual regard, but manifested itself in ways that Mr. Wooster and I found confusing.  We observed after the first day or so that when Mr. Cheesewright called Wally a ‘blighter’ they seemed to disappear for about twenty minutes, which were often marked by some very rough-sounding thumping noises, grunts and muffled shouts.  Mr. Wooster had paled visibly the first time he heard them.

“Reg?”

“Yes love?”

“Can we go for a swim? I know they like it, but it sounds so rough.”  We went to our small dock and stripped off our clothes in the starlight—we had acquired a number of loose-fitting linen garments that Mr. Wooster adored—and as we twined our naked bodies together in the water, he looked up at me. “Perhaps we are not really being rough and tumble, Reg.”

“Bertie, you cannot possibly want that.  I can see how upset you are, and I must confess that I would be terrified of hurting you by acting so.”  He shuddered.

“No, Reg, I was just correcting my own terms.”

“I think perhaps they are merely more robust and vigorous in their exertions.  They are both very sizeable gentlemen.” We hooked our legs together while Mr. Wooster considered this for a moment.

“Reg?”

“Yes, love?”

He moved very close, one thigh brushing my phallus, and slowly rubbed against me. “Might we stroke and kiss each other, very gently, all over?” I nearly climaxed, and it took a moment to collect myself enough to speak. 

“That sounds exquisite, love. Would you like to begin here or retire to the bedroom?” As usual, he had read my response to him, and he moved closer and rubbed against me very softly and brushed my lips with his, then held me and murmured tender endearments in my ear as I climaxed against him. Then he whispered. “Perhaps inside. I’d like to keep the light on so we can see each other.”

I had some difficulty catching my breath.  “I’ll need a few moments to be able to walk steadily, love.”

“You can lean on me, Reg.”

“That would be most welcome.”  I didn’t move, and Mr. Wooster regarded me with a puzzled expression.  “Love, I know I agreed to wait for you to approach the topic, but I must say something.”

“All right, Reg.”

“I am extremely proud of you, love. You were so very brave under the most trying circumstances. I could not have done half so well.” Mr. Wooster flushed and looked away, then rested his head on my shoulder. His frame shook and I pressed him close. “Oh, love, I am sorry to distress you.”

“I was so frightened, Reg.”

“I know, darling.” I kissed his hair. “Would you like to be stroked and kissed?”

He looked up. “Very gently?”

“Yes, love.” I smiled fondly at him.

“All over?”

“Wherever you like.”

“As long as I may recipro-whatsit.”

“That would be most welcome.”  

We climbed out of the water and retrieved our clothes, then crept silently back into the house, naked and dripping water.  We moved together almost like a single person, and when either of us grew unsteady, the other supported him. Years later, I would look back on that furtive trip to our bedroom as the beginning of the most profound happiness we had yet known.


End file.
